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UNDER THE LAMP 



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JAMES STANHOPE LOVE 



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GAFFNBY, S. C. 
THE GAFFNEY LEDGER 

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UNDER THE LAMP 



WITH 



BEN HOPE" 



Fifty Cents a Copy 



BY 



JAMES STANHOPE LOVE 



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Gaffney, S. C. 

THE GAFFNEY LEDGER 

MCMXI 






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DEDICATION. 

To the many kind, loving friends who have stood by me 
so faithfully, loved me so well, and assisted me so unselfish- 
ly; this volume is dedicated. Each and every one of them 
will ever be held ii< grateful memory by me. 
Dear Unknown Friend : 

This book is sent to you for this reason, to-wit: When 
you shall have read it, I believe that you will desire to pay 
for a copy. Therefore, please let me hear from you. If 
you wish, you can send me fifty cents; otherwise, please 
return the book. I make this offer to each one of my un- 
known read°rs. I am a cripple, having never been able to 
walk a step. I have educated myself, and have never at- 
tended school a dav. 



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CONTENTS. 

Foreword . . . . . . ... . . . . 15 

"Dreamy-Eyes" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . , . 17 

The Guitarist . . . . . . , . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 

"Dreaming" . . , . .*. „ „ . . . . „ „ . . . . . . 22 

At Twenty-three . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . „ . . . 25 

In the "Seas of Memory" . . . . . . . . 30 

My Ideals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 

My Heart's Desire . . . . ' 40 

My Aching Void . . . . . . 41 

The Fire . . . . . . . . 42 

"Richard" 45 

The Banjo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . „ . . . . 47 

A Backwoods Preacher . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . 49 

Random Comments . . . . . . » . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 

"Brown-Eyes" . . 56 

Summer ( 1910) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ; . . 62 

Fragments . „ . . . . 67 

A Dream . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 

The Ghost of Rocky Branch . . . . . . . . . '. . . . . . . . . 79 

The Author's Postscript . . . . 87 



Under the Lamp with "Ben Hope" 



FOREWORD. 

Somehow or other (and I scarcely know how or why, 
only I know that I want to do it,) I have for a long- time 
desired to write a hook of short stories, character sketches, 
and some of my own real experiences in life. Out here in 
this quiet rural community, where I live, work, and "enjoy 
life," many strange scenes, quaint characters, curious inci- 
dents, silent tragedies, and real struggles in life have come 
under my observation; and I have been seized with the 
idea that I can, perhaps, record all of these for the enter- 
tainment of those who are to come after me. I sincerely 
believe that if they could all be written just as they are, and 
by one who knows them to be, they would constitute an in- 
teresting addition vo the rustic literature of our fair land. 

I do not claim to be able to write up these stories in as 
worthy, brilliant -md up-to-date a manner as it, perhaps, 
should be done; T am, nevertheless, confident of my own 
ability to do ihe work in some way. Therefore, I would 
make this request of those who make it their business to 
pass judgment upon the literature of the world : Most aus- 
tere learned, and profound Critic, when you have read 
these stories over in a very careful and sympathetic (?) 
fashion, won't you please be tolerant of all my errors? I 
know that you are at once the friend, the enemy, and — the 
despair, of every one who may, perchance, dare to aspire to 
authorship; — but, nevertheless, I'm not afraid of you! I 
am a self-educated "knight of the pen;" and I, therefore 

15 



and somehow, believe that all of my mistakes will be kind- 
ly excused, and overlooked, by every one of my readers. 
November 12th, 1909. 

*p SJC 5j» 5j» *jC 3g£ 5jx 3J» J|! 3j» 3{S Sp 5|C 5(C 

Since the foregoing was written, one day last autumn, I 
have decided to say a few more words of a personal nature. 
I know that I am only a poor, weak h«man being. But 
whenever I look out upon my fellow-creatures, see all of 
their mistakes and little failings of everything and every- 
body, I am encouraged to continue on in my own way. 
. . . . . . . . . . . . The Spirit of 

Love never dies. 

These stories arc, for the most part, the creations of my 
own fancy. 

JAMES STANHOPE LOVE. 
February 15th, 1910. 



16 



"DREAMY-EYES." 

I remember. I remember! Yes; I remember "Dreamy- 
Eyes " For was t not she who first stirred to life, within 
my breast, the great passion called love? That was the 
happiest hour of my life, and it will never pass away from 
my memory. 

One night, many years ago, several of the young people, 
who then lived near us, assembled in our home for a few 
short hours of fun, pleasure and merry-making. It was 
winter-time, they were attending school, and I was just a 
lonely crippled boy ; therefore it often happened that we 
had such little parties in our home, in order to give me 
some enjoyment, as well as to also pass away the long win- 
ter evenings as pleasantly for all of us as we could. 

Some one said. "Let's sing and play one of our little ring 
plays that we practice at school." So they formed a circle, 
round two members of the party, by "catching hands," as 
they expressed it ; and then they "marched round the ring," 
singing as thev went. 

I had known "Dreamy-Eyes" for a long time, although 
I was'not aware that she possessed such a superbly sweet, 
tender, musical voice until that night. And then and there 
I fell in love with that voice, those dreamy eyes, and their 
owner. I believe it was the first time that I had ever really 
experienced the feeling called love, and I went to bed hap- 
pier that nighl than I had ever been before in my life. 

Time moved on, things changed in our neighborhood, 
and I continued to grow in knowledge, — as well as in years. 
During the next two years or more, I saw "Dreamy- Eyes" 
pretty often, considering the fact of my seclusion. I sel- 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

dom visited any in those days, as I was generally too weak, 
physically, to do so. Therefore I remained at home most 
of my time, reading, studying and writing. But since she 
visited us occasionally, I was, somehow, satisfied. I do not 
know whether sh^ was ever aware of my love for her or 
not. as I never told her about it. I know, however, that 
she always showed much kindness to, and consideration 
for me, afflicted and lonely as I was then. 

I visited her home one afternoon in the sweet summer- 
time and I certainly enjoyed my visit very much. As al- 
ways before she had been, she was modest and. kind in her 
own simple way. I sat and looked at her. I thought I had 
never before seen her so beautiful. Her skin was clear and 
fair ; her eyes were of a light blue color, with not a thing 
to mar their perfect beauty ; and her whole aspect was one 
of grace and loveliness. It was only such a loveliness as 
Nature alone can give, too ; which made it all "literally 
worth a king's ransom," in my eyes, I thought. But some- 
how the ardor of my first passion had, strangely enough, 
become quite indifferent, considering what it had been be- 
fore I still loved her. it was true; yet, I heard the news 
of her engagement without feeling the slightest pang of 
jealousy, or anything remotely pertaining to it. Neverthe- 
less, I thought the expression of her countenance was even 
more heavenly, in my sight that afternoon, than usual, — 
if that were possible. 

I saw her only one more time, if I remember correctly, 
before her marriage to the man of her choice. And so not 
long after this she was united, in the holy bonds of matri- 
mony, to a fallow who seemed very fond of her, to say no 
more. T saw her only twice after that, as she departed for 
a different neighborhood, with her husband, there to make 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

her future home. I still loved her, too; and my memory 
of her has, ever since, been one of my dearest, sweetest, 
most hallowed treasures. (It was only last night that 
I went to sleep "dreaming'' of those pleasant days, long 
ago departed from me.) 

Since that sweet time, I have found consolation else- 
where ; but I still love to think about "Dreamy-Eyes." And 
I often do. 

One clay, as T was seated at my desk writing, some one 
suddenly darkened my door. Hastily looking up, I saw— 
"Dreamy-Eyes/' with her child, a pretty little boy! My 
heart did not beat a lively tattoo within me, altho' I found 
her as beautiful a.?, ever and gave her my hand, in signal of 
welcome, as "gladly as I ever gave it to any one. I was 
alone at the time, and as she seated herself I could not 
help feeling rather strange for a moment. "What might 
have been, if I had only" — I thought. But it would avail 
me nothing, now, to indulge in vain thoughts. 

Soon after this, she sank under the burdens of life, — for 
she had married quite young, — and became sick. She felt, 
from the first, th?t it was her last illness; so she talked to 
all of her lo\ T ed ones. She told them all to meet her in 
Heaven, as she was going thither herself. And I believe 
she did. 

Gentle reader, this is a true story, and I have written it 
just as it has formed itself in my mind. "Dreamy-Eyes" 
did really live right near my home once, and I was per- 
sonally .acquainted with her family. And it is also true 
that i loved her; but, nevertheless, my love for her return- 
ed to my own heart quite as calmly, at the proper time, as 
it had passionately gone out to her before. I can of a 
truth say yet, however, that nothing and nobody, either 

19 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

intimately or remotely connected with her, shall ever be ob- 
jects of indifference to me. 

Hoping that this little story has not been written in vain, 
that every one of my readers will enjoy it, that there may 
be at least a few who will be benefited by reading it, and 
that Heaven will continue to bless my devoted efforts, I 
will close for today. 



THE GUITARIST. 

Once, in the sweet long ago, there lived, right near my 
home, a gentle girl who sang and played on the guitar, 
very beautifully. She was, I believe, the sweetest guitarist 
that I have ever heard perform on that sublimest of all 
instruments I when played by girlish fingers!), and I've 
heard many. Possessed of a natural talent for music, she 
was indeed an excellent performer on either banjo, guitar, 
or organ. And ,-ince music has always been one of my 
delights, as it were, she often came to my home to play 
and sing for me. Some of the songs which she sang were 
sad and sweet, while others were of a lighter turn. Hymns, 
songs, and "just any old thing" made sweet music when 
she played them, however; and I have sat for hours at a 
time listening to her. Some of the deepest emotions of my 
soul were stirred in a manner that I am not likely ever to 
forget, by my old-time guitarist-friend. But changes must 
of necessity come, therefore it came to pass, after a few 
short years, that J ceased to see her any more; as of old' 
I had been accustomed to fondly watching for her, I now 
managed to pass my time away as pleasantly as I couid 
without her I visited her home only once while she lived 
in my home-neighborhood. It was Christmas and very 

20 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

cold, but I enjoyed my day's visit immensely. (Neverthe- 
less, I had to suffer, from the effects of thus exposing my- 
self, for a week afterward. I believe that was the first 
time that I had ever had toothache, and oh dear ! how I 
suffered. Yet, Heaven was kind, and I was well once 
more, after many weary days.) 

The desire to improve myself, my condition, and to 
make my surroundings more congenial to the taste;; of; a 
refined and cultured mind, dates from the days ci my 
sweet guitarist, I believe ; for well do- I remember the uveal 
thoughts which would pass through my mind wnen she 
was playing her best for me, as she often did. 

I remember the last summer that we had her with ::s 
almost as vividly as if it were only yesterday, and 1 brieve 
it was the sweetest summer-time that I ever spent. She 
came often to our home ; for it was the last year that her 
family intended to spend in old "Buck-horn." The next 
year, therefore, they all departed for another neighbor- 
hood I saw her several times since, but somehow she 
never again seemed just like the guitarist of my boyhood 
days. 

The years swept onward in their ever-restless course, 
and by and by the news reached me that my guitarist had 
entered "the state of double blessedness;" therefore I truly 
felt, then, that I should never see my guitarist any more 
in the same role in which she always used to appear. 

But, many thanks, my noble friend, for all that you ever 
did for me. You came into my life just at the proper time 
to inspire me with a love for the beautiful in everything 
and everybody, and it has never left me. You did go out 
of my life; but your gentle influence still lives within my 
breast as sweetly as ever. Many times, since those happy 

21 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

days, have I sinned and suffered. But, Heaven be praised! 
my soul has at last been filled with a Light which shall 
never die I can now very plainly see that the Father has 
blessed everything to my good, and even as I write I am 
satisfied with my portion in life. Since I became a man, 
I have made other sweet friends, who rejoice sincerely to 
see my progressive march toward better things ; and I now 
know what it is to live. Yet, even in my own enlightened 
vision of to-day, not one appears more lovely than 
"Dreamy-Eyes" and "The Guitarist." 

How very deceptive one's memory can be, sometimes! 
After writing and writing, I find, on looking over my 
manuscript, that I have, unintentionally, omitted parts of 
my two preceding stories. I had intended "telling it all," 
as local parlance expresses it; but since that seems to be 
an impossible task with me, will only add, that I trust my 
readers can imagine, for themselves, all that seems lack- 
ing in my book. A friend of mine had the honor and 
pleasure of witnessing the marriage of "Dreamy-Eyes/* 
which happened so long ago that it's almost like a dream 
now ; and he thought her "the prettiest sight he had ever 
seen" But the most beautiful flowers must, always and in- 
evitably, wither the soonest. And it was only the other 
day that I received a letter from "The Guitarist." It came 
like a breath from the far long- ago, too ; for as I read her 
epistle I could nearly imagine that she was near me once 
more, with her o-ujtar. 



"DREAMING." 

I am a dreamer, a day-dreamer of dreams. I have, at 
night, had many absured dreams ; none of which I ever 

22 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

expect to come to be a reality, because of their very ab- 
surdity. But it is about my day-dreams I wish especially 
to speak in this little sketch; for it is the latter which al- 
ways count r "or something in this life. It's not those fleet- 
ing night-time visions, which all of us see at one time or 
another, that help in any way to make life better for the 
human beings of this world — save in a few rare cases, when 
they reveal to us just a passing glimpse, as it were, of the 
glories of the other world. Some — and they are not a 
few — pretend to a disbelief in all dreams. Nevertheless, 
I'm not of those who, because their eyes are blinded by 
ignorance and prejudice and fear, claim that they can be- 
hold nothing whatsoever in dreams ; neither am I wholly 
given up to a belief in dreams. So hither we go with my 
"dreams " 

I am dreaming to-day. I dream of a better time to come. 
It is good with me now, of course and to be sure; but there 
is always room for improvement in everything - . I dream 
of the time, which I am certain will come, when I shall 
have acquired the sort of an education my heart yearns for; 
when I Lhall have written books; when I shall have become 
enshrined in the hearts of my countrymen ; when all of my 
devoted and unselfish labors will be crowned with suc- 
cess 

I dream of the happy day when I may . . . have 
the satisfaction of giving my own dear mother a rest from 
a life-time of devoted labor for those to whom she is very 
good ; when I may one day have a magnificent home of my 
own ; . ar.d when all things may work out to the 

good of those who love God. ... I have very high 
ideals. 

I dream of the day when I may be known over all the 

23 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

South; when people will have read my message to them; 
when it might be said of me that I did the best I could with 
whatever talents God gave me; when my life and my work 
shall be known and understood by every one ; 
And now, O Father! hear my humble prayer. Permit me, 
I entreat Thee, to enjoy life properly while it lasts. Give 
me strength to labor and to wait for Thee. Give me cour- 
age to say, Thy will be done. Help me to live as I should, 
and as Thou wouldst have me live. Take not away from 
me the one joy of my life — Thy love for me. Comfort me 
always, and in the darkest hour of suffering forsake me 
not. O Father of Heaven and Earth ! . . . 

Like dear old Charles Dickens, I will digress from the 
main thread of my subject, occasionally, as I go along. 
Somehow, digressing seems to' be my worst fault. Never- 
theless. I love to rove about from place to place, telling a 
little here a ad a little there, filling up the notches, as it 
were I was reading over all of my own personal corres- 
pondence this week; and as I read and pondered some of 
my old letters it w as with many and various feelings and 
emotions that I drew out and read a letter from New Hamp- 
shire, which my unknbwn and far-away friend, Mr. M. A. 
J. Freeman, wrote to me years ago. In it he advised me 
not to become too ambitious, but compose myself and en- 
deavor to be contented. He wished me to continue my 
writing and studying, and to do so in a happy manner. He 
also advised me to write about the simple things of every 
day life as such descriptive and reminiscent sketches al- 
ways carry us back to the things which we have all known 
and loved. 

I have labored over my manuscript many days. Some- 
times I am almost discouraged, and even think of des- 

24 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

troying a part or all of that which is already written, and 
give up the idea of composing such a book as this is in- 
tended to be. But somehow I seem to be led on by a power 
stronger than my own weakness; for still my work con- 
tinues from day to day. What my brain has created, my 
hand has reduced to writing; and so I have not the heart 
to destroy it I know that others can scarcely see my work 
in the same light that I see it, love it as I have loved it, un- 
derstand it so well as I do, and feel as deeply over it as 
it is possible for only the author, who has studied, prayed 
and 1 abored for so long, to feel. In my own enthusiasm, 
however I often "orget that this is so; and will imagine 
that everybody understands and loves my writings as well 
as I love them myself. For every person living sees, and 
understands, in his own peculiar way, — and through his 
own eve-o-lasses. 



AT TWENTY-THREE. 

"what life means to me." 

a study of life as it really is. 

icr— W r hat do I live for, and what does life mean to me? 
I believe that I live because I love this life in the way that 
God intended me to love it, and because it means all that is 
noble and true and good to me, now and forevermore. 

Here I sit. a poverty-stricken, lonely, afflicted man. I 
cannot walk a step. ... I am poor in this world's 
goods, and have i othing except a mere living. I have a 
tender, loving, sympathetic heart, and an inexpressible long- 
ing for something or other — I know not what. (I call this 
mournful feeling my "aching void ;" for no other name 

25 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

that I can think oi", suits it so well. And fain would I tell 
all about that "aching void'' right here, but I cannot. 'Ti* 
a subject too profound for proper and intelligent expres- 
sion") . 

Nevertheless, I enjoy life very much. I love it, truly and 
devotedly. I believe I like it just for its own dear sake. 
Although I am afflicted, and my life is much limited in its 
scope thereby, still 1 have many beautiful things to live for. 
And therefore I always strive to enjoy and employ each 
day as it comes, just as happily as I can. A chapter from 
the Words of Life, a prayer for guidance, then the day's 
work — reading, studying and writing. That is my rule. 

I love this life, just fur the sake of living and hoping 
for better things and times. I believe that expresses it 
aptly and concisely; for if I did not sincerely believe that 
the morrow will always be an improvement on to-day, life 
would lose half of its charm for me. My "heart's desire" 
would then cease to be the one inspiration of my pen. 

If one does not manage to find, and enjoy, the blessings 
of to-day, the future is not likely ever to be any better; 
therefore I alway; strive to live in to-day, — allowing the 
future to take care of itself. I have a strong, active, and 
fertile intellect, rm 'miind is fresh and vigorous, my heart 
is tender and loving and sympathetic, I have hope and faith 
in the future, and I have courage to do and to dare for the 
sake of the eight as I understand it. I love beauty in all 
things, and 'an a'ways manage to see it everywhere. I 
have much around me to make me happy and satisfied, and 
I know that I do what I can to see it, enjoy it, and profit 
by it. 

Every one knows what struggles and trials and tempta- 
tions we have, in a general way; but only those wdio are 

26 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

afflicted as I am, who have suffered as I have suffered, who 
have yearned as I have yearned, who have been cared for 
by tender hands because of affliction, and who have had to 
submit quietly to so many unpleasant things, will ever know 
just what it means to be a "shut-in." Ignorance, poverty, 
ill health and affliction, the loss of friends, and the inability 
to do all that one Jongs to do, are bad enough. . . . 

I believe I know what life might be to me, one day. I 
somehow feel that it will, guided and directed by the 
Father, always be good. I am certain that I shall never 
want for the necessities of life, and that there will be those 
around me to minister to my needs as long as I live. I feel 
sure that I have many true friends, who wish me well in 
all things. I am satisfied that in somebody's heart I am 
enthroned as an ideal of human pluck and endeavor. I 
have encouragement and inspiration to labor on. 

I am loved by my friends. The little children all seem 
to take a sort of kindly interest in me. (Bless their little 
hearts! I love them. Time was, when I, in my boyish 
timidness, ''didn't care much for 'em," and people laughed 
at me because of it). The boys and girls of my acquaint- 
ance do what they can for me. They all show, by their 
little- acts of kindness, just how deeply they sympathize 
with me. To them, it seems so sad for one to be afflicted 
as I am ; and they are willing to divide their little joys with 
me, — lout never their sorrows. I have many unknown 
friends, too, who would do anything in their power for 
me. I have one, c specialty, who understands me. I have 
never seen her, have never taken her hand in mine, have 
neve-- looked into the depths of her calm, serene, soulful 
eyes ; nevertheless, I know that she is a friend, a friend 
"tried and true." 

27 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

I have illy books, my work, my love of literature, my 
flowers, the devotion of those around me, my inspiration, 
the health-giving climate of Dixie, our beautiful Southern 
scenes and landscapes, and my music, to make life pleasant 
for me. And it is pleasant! 

I have studied life and human nature from several points 
of view I have, literally speaking, reached all the way 
from the cradle to the grave in my range of thought on the 
subject. I have drunk from the fountains of love and 
romance; dreamed of the joys of soft eyes, tender hands 
anl summer moonlight ; talked soberly with old age on the 
vanities and follies of life, and endeavored to study every 
phase of human nature. I have done this because I could 
not do otherwise, and because I wished to learn from ex- 
perience 

I know what it is to be bashful and ill-natured, and have 
been "almost teased to death" many times in my life. I 
know what ic means to be slighted and snubbed and unnotic- 
ed, and mair\- a time have T had my ideals crushed to the 
earth, before my very eyes, by ruthless, thoughtless, heed- 
less, ignorant people. But it all went for nothing; as I 
know not the meaning of failure, and purpose never to 
give up. I will fight the battle of life, in my way, as fast 
and as furiously ab I can while my life lasts. 

I have looked upon the babe in the cradle, the timid couple 
under the mistletoe, and the heroic struggle of two voung 
hearts "trying to make a living;" and have been impressed 
with the innocence, helplessness, hope, joy and — the sorrow 
—of :t all And when I contemplate all of these things, I 
am convinced thai there is, indeed, no unbelief; for even 
the tin}' seed that falls to the earth almost believes that it 
shall one day grow into a mighty tree. 

28 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

I have seen the young mother's eyes shine with the 
glorious light of love over her first-born; and have seen her 
again bowed down in sorrow at the side of her dead darling 
— beautiful even in death. I have heard and seen the pa- 
thetic cries and airs of the motherless and the fatherless. 
. . . Ah! gentle readers, I know all about the pathetic 
side of life, — aside from mere physical affliction. 

II — There are those who regard my views of life as al- 
most nothing. In their own way, they would discourage 
me, if they could, without knowing it. They laugh at me 
because I am a Populist, because I believe in the doctrine 
of "Equal rig;hts to all, special privileges to none;"' be- 
cause "Tom Watsi-n" is my ideal man, because I have faith 
enough in humanity to believe that there can, occasionally, 
be such a thing as honesty in politics; and because they 
think that I am only an inexperienced idealist. I am not, 
however, cast down by anything whatsoever. 

There are some who, in their own thoughtless fashion, 
would unwittingly compel me to believe that there is no 
good in humanity. . . . And it is then that I am sad- 
dest and feel riiy "aching void" most keenly. 

There are those who seem jealous of me. In their own 
circumscribed outlook on life, they simply cannot under- 
stand just how one of my very limited opportunities can 
manage to accomplish anything really worth while. To 
their uneducated minds, I am somewhat of a wonder. But 
be it recorded in iustice to them, that not one of them has 
ever lone anything to hinder my progress upward and on- 
ward. They have only given me a small measure of ridi- 
cule : a thing whi' h has been of inestimable worth to me. 
For lias it not kindled the fire of an ambition in my breast 
which will never die? Has it not nerved me to every effort 

29 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

of wnich I am capable? Has it not been the one thing most 
needful for me? ^'lattery, without criticism, often does un- 
told harm to one by closing his vision to those things which 
every one must see and learn, in order to be wise. 

III. — I desire always to be a free man, to be permitted 
to speak the truth, and never to be silenced by any means 
when I know that I ought to speak: I purpose to "let my- 
self go" all the time. I desire to give the world my views 
on life, in order that it might profit by the lesson I am 
striving to teach — the achievements of one crippled boy who 
has really struggled against almost impossible and insuper- 
able difficulties. I desire the world one day to know what 
my ideals are. and I intend to labor always in support of 
them. . . . 

;); -J< ;|< .>< ;jc %. >|< ■% s(s ^ ;j< jj; ;|; $1 

I am, nevertheless and notwithstanding, really a happy 
man at twenty-three. 



IN THE "SEAS OF MEMORY." 
What is memory? What is it that fills our minds as 
sweetly, as beautifully, as water fills the brook, as flowers 
perfume the atmosphere, as the summer birds enliven the 
warm days, or as dew refreshes the night air? What con- 
stitutes our most useful, hallowed, and beautiful of treas- 
ures? What makes us, by turns, sad and regretful, glad 
and happy, humorous and philosophical? What is our 
constant companion always, bringing ever before us scenes 
of beauty, light, darkness, and happiness? What is it that 
enables us to commune with the far-distant past ? Time is 
fleeting, and we are hard-pressed to keep up, all our days. 
Ah! what a fine, noble thing memory is! 

30 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

All of us have our times of depression, hours of weari- 
ness; days of loneliness. There are, in fact, times in our 
lives that we are very sad. We hardly know why, either; 
it just seems as if we were brooding over some mysterious 
tragedy. But the Words of Life eternal, and grand, sweet 
Memory, never fail to perform their offices for us. 

Happy days of the past, old associations, far-off dreams, 
boyhood pleasures and all that used to be good to us, are 
still with us in memory. We can see them even after we 
are Hearing the end of life's journey. They never leave 
us, either, these memories ; for the Father has so willed that 
we can have them always — if we but try. The mind never 
dies ; and the more knowledge that we acquire, therefore, 
the better. I believe that we can so live as always to be 
young, youthful, and buoyant, if we will. It is peculiarly 
sad to see so mat y "growing- old before their time," and 
yet that is an every, day occurrence with just numbers of 
human beings Why not enter the seas of Memory and 
say, "Come, eternal Spring, come and reign in my heart 
forevermore! I need thee, and I must have thee!" 

H< :'f ^ >K -f >1< =!< ^ ;fc >!< H 8 -K H 5 H* 

I have labored to acquire learning sufficient to 
render me capable of writing, so long and so hard, that 
this has come to be a part of my very life. The preceding 
scraps truly contain much of my very soul. 

Gentle reader, read in these pages the wonderful story 
of my life, my work, my hopes, my desires, and my aims. 
In thun will be found many a heart throb, many a hope de- 
ferred, and many heartfelt longings. This radiant April 
day, as I write, I am full of hope and joy and happiness. 

31 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

But after all, the sad, solemn days will inevitably come to 
each of us at some time in life. 



MY IDEALS. 

As I have ^aid before, I have my ideals. I am, to speak 
precisely, an idealist "to the manner born." There is noth- 
ing in this whole wide world that I love half so well as 
dreaming and idealizing. To me, — in my own poor little 
world, as it were, — it is nearly all of my life. And when 
I enter the far-away, dreamy land of my ideals, as I often 
do in imagination, it is then that I am happiest. 

I have had one long hard struggle all of my life. Ah! 
I could not tell the whole story of it if I would. But, some- 
how or other, nothing makes me afraid. Reading some of 
"Tom" Watson's writings has kindled the fires of an am- 
bition in my breast that will never die. I believe it— I know 
it — I feel it- -I realize it! Yet, it is not the sort of ambi- 
tion which nearly drove Edna Earle, in "St. Elmo," to her 
own destruction; it is rather, I believe, the kind which al- 
ways prompts and encourages one to give the world the 
best that one may have. And so long as my life continues, 
I have resolved to give the world the best that I have. 

There are those who seem to consider my ideals and stand- 
ards oi life too high for mortal man ever to reach. They 
think that I am too strict . . . ; that man is only 
human and weak and helpless, after all; and that if I were 
myself differently situated, I might not think as I now think 
And perhaps that is true, to some extent ; but nevertheless, 
man can live up 10 my standard. I know this or else I 
would not cling to my ideals so persistently. I would not 
love the world so well, neither would I have any hope of 

32 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

a future life. Something tells me, always, that I am right 
in clinging fa^t to my ideals; and in my heart of hearts I 
know that I am determined to live up to them. God only 
wants us to recognize His power and mercy and goodness, 
as w? journey through life, in order to fill our souls with 
calm contentment. He has never, since the fall of mankind, 
expected us to live without sinning in our own natural 
wavs. That is a self-evident truth. 

There are also those who have no ideals ; consequently 
their mode of liv-ng, their standards . . ., are not 
such as to inspire any one with confidence in that which 
all persons must believe is right. They have no ambition, 
no lofty yearnings, to rise above their common stations; 
they are satisfied just to pursue the even tenor of their 
ways. To them, the ''upper crust" of knowledge, the one 
peculiar charm of books, the intense joy of composing and 
writing, are just meaningless phrases, that have no fascinat- 
ion for them They find pleasure in the simplest things 
and ways imaginable. A well-cooked meal, with a pipe af- 
terwards ; a funny story, told in the proper manner to amuse ; 
a party, with good lively music and dancing; a pretty girl, 
and a "buggy and mule;" or a pleasant summer afternoon, 
spent along the banks of some refreshing stream, — these 
are what most young people enjoy best of all. But when 
it is too late many of them realize what a sad failure their 
lives have been. 

There are those who would "just laugh at" my ideals, 
perhaps ; in the mistaken notion that I know nothing about 
the world and its ways, with its many and various "good 
things" which, a fellow may get if he will try. And this 
is, perchance, all very true, viewed in a certain light. But 
I do know that one never has any deeper conception of 

33 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

what life means t > mankind other than that with which the 
Creator has endued each of us. We know only what we 
see, feel, hear, learn and understand; that which is out of 
our lives is out of our knowledge too. We have no means 
of knowing- the hearts of others; therefore I may say that 
we are, always, guided and directed by a Power beyond the 
comprehension of man. 

There arc idso those who consider the idealist as a sort 
of impracticable being, who never amounts to much. To 
all such careless persons, the dreams of the "professional 
dreamer" are merely the outpouring of a queer studious 
man (or woman, as it may be sometimes), who knows 
nothing of life's joys. To them, the rule is "Eat, Drink 
and Be Merry!" But alas! many take a course which, 
they must know, will in the end bring only despair, ruin 
and destruction. In the very face of two ways (and there 
are only two in this world) they deliberately take the way 
through life that inevitably leads to eternal ruin. They 
do indeed eat, drink and make merry — for a little while. 
Some stand it longer than others, of course; but sooner 
or later they all wither from the effects of fast living and 
idling away their precious hours. 

Therefore gentle readers, I am determined to cling to 
my ideals — irrespective of all things, all persons, and all 
creed 3. They are my life, my very soul; and, with His 
help, I am satisfied that I am able to maintain as high and 
exalted a standard as it is possible for any one to main- 
tain. Some may put on a more refined touch to their 
ideal ; but I yield to none in being solid and natural. 
O, proud world ! take not my ideals away from me, for af- 
ter all, they constitute my sole possession in this life! 

I have said that there are some who, it would seem, have 

34 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

no fixed ideals in life. But, however that may be, I be- 
lieve that I speak the truth when I claim that each person 
living has, in his heart of hearts, some conception of what 
is nearest and clearest to all of our hearts. We all know 
what we like best, whether we can express it in words or 
not. And so it has gradully dawned upon my intelligence 
that, somewhere in my inner self, there is an imaginary 
creation which I :-m pleased to call the ideal life, the life 
worth living, or just any name the reader may choose to 
give it. (The name thereof makes no material difference: 
it is the same everywhere). 

If there is anything that strikes my fancy with a force 
which is, at once, convincing, fascinating and irresistible, 
it is either a childish child, a girlish girl, a manly man, or 
a womanly woman. Each of them, in their respective 
periods of life, has a charm that is altogether peculiar to 
itself. And, in my opinion, the first thing that ever re- 
dounds to the good of mankind is the ideal life. That is a 
thing which is known to exist somewhere, and which many 
persons in all ages have striven for ; but not every one was 
ever able to attain it. 

The ideal life, or the best mode of living, is the one which 
enables a person tc live in peace and happiness. I may not 
have any money, education, or worldly goods of any sort; 
I am, perhaps, destitute of even life's necessities. Never- 
theless. I can be happy, if the glorious Light and Spirit of 
Love reign in my heart. 

I may be lonely, forsaken and afflicted ; I might desire, 
without ever receiving; I can even wish fervently for that 
which I know I shall never get, and then not lose sight of 
my ideal life. (Gentle reader, I speak the truth, as you can 
see if you will). 

35 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

The ideal life never grows old, never stops learning, and 
always sheds radiance in a dark world. It enables one to 
say, "Whatever is to be will be. I know only the present: 
I know not the future. No matter what God has purposed 
to do, I feel that I shall be taken care of. My needs will 
not be lost sight of by Him. Therefore, I am satisfied to 
wait on the Lord " 

Greed and avarice, meanness and selfishness, have no 
part, no place, in the ideal life; neither has contrariness. If 
my sonl is contented to-day — why not to-morrow too ? Oh ! 
how we need the faith and trust of a little child, in order 
to live happily. 

I have often seen dirty, penniless, illiterate negroes who 
were, alas ! more hopeful of the future than I. In their 
own circumscribed outlook on life, the world seemed a vast 
treasure house of new beauties every day. Now and then 
trouble would, of course, come to all of them; but it never 
crushed them utterly. Their lives were not, by any means, 
ideal ; but in their simple faith they have taught one man a 
great lesson. And, to come back to the life worth living;, 
allow me to state, right here, that I believe I have found 
the real conception of it in the lives of such illustrious char- 
acters as Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, Thomas E. Wat- 
son, Frank I,, Stanton, Margaret J. Preston, Augusta J. 
Evans, Mary Chapin Smith, and Mary E. Bryan. I have 
read some of their works; and I believe that they, and hosts 
of others of the same school, all possess exalted ideals of 
life. They know the life w r orth living. 

The ideal life brings all that is good, to mankind; evil 
never enters it to stay forever. It explores new fields every 
year, in its incessant search after knowledge. It will wade 
through a vast amount of trash for one grain of truth. It 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

always smiles, even though sorrow might have given it one 
irremediable wound in its journey upward and onward. It 
will see the best and brightest part of all things, in spite of 
the evil which they may contain. It is always young, hope- 
ful, and buoyant — calm, serene, and contented. The ideal 
life is irrepressible. 

The ideal life is, therefore, the only one really worth 
living. It is the only sure way of securing happiness. It 
is what I desire, next to everything else mentionable, in the 
world to-day. I am striving hard to attain the soul's wish, 
too. In fact, the ability to live the life ideal, has been my 
one supreme desire ever since my soul's awakening. 

The ideal man loves the truth, and hates all forms of de- 
ceit and falsehood. He early surrenders himself to the 
lofty yearnings of his inner being, and strive always to 
do his best. He admires beauty and harmony in all things, 
and is ever kind and gentle. He is no respecter of persons, 
but is polite and attentive to all. He is honest: he would 
rather give than take, always. The ideal man does not 
meddle or interfere with other persons' affairs in any way; 
he stands on his own dignity, and allows the world just to 
"rock along" in its own old way. He is always neat in his 
attire (except when his work is of the sort which forbids 
neatness), and has good manners and kind treatment for 
every one. He has not one face at home, and another abroad. 
He does not "put on;" he prefers to be natural. He does 
not lose his temper, and sa)' - things just the moment some- 
thing goes wrong: he thinks before he speaks. He takes 
no delight in vulgarity, loves nothing that is dark, admires 
all pure women, loves children, makes his wife his ideal, is 
a lover always, takes the part of those who are imposed 
upon, despises not the amusements of young people, lives a 

37 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

clean life, keeps his house open to the stranger as well as 
to his neighbor, and endeavors to get all the good out of 
life there is in it for him. He does not set a very low stand- 
ard of morality, and then say, "There is no virtue in the 
world." Surely he would not care to see every woman a 
prostitute? 

The ideal man knows no double life. Pie enjoys the sim- 
ple things of life, and always finds his comfort and rest at 
home. He may not be educated ; but if he possess honesty, 
courage and manliness, he will never want for the one real 
pleasure of living. In his own way, he can always manage 
to enjoy life. He is satisfied to spend his days in his pres- 
ent station of life. 

The deal man treats his horse as he treats his family — 
with kindness and. consideration. He does not wish those 
whom he employs or with whom he is employed, to be im- 
posed upon more than himself. Like Roosevelt, he believes 
in the ''Square Deal," and endeavors to live according to it. 

I may not know many ideal men, of the sort portrayed 
above ; but I believe in the ideal man, nevertheless. I, my- 
self, am not an ideal man, since I have enough of the Adam 
in my make-up to render me a very weak personage, some- 
times. And. somehow or other, I am constrained to believe 
that ihe ideal man does exist — somewhere. It may be 
only in my imagination, but I cannot believe it is so remote 
as all that: — for I am certain that the ideal girl is a real, 
live, tangible something! The ideal woman is also a re- 
ality ; for I have lived with one ever since I came into the 
world ; a living, breathing, crying atom of humanity. And 
therefore I cling to the theory that nothing but the higher 
ideals are really worth while, now and always. 

The minister, the doctor, the lawyer, the editor, the schol- 

38 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

ar. and the author all have, uppermost in their minds al- 
ways, high ideals; and the higher their ideals, the greater 
their achievements. That is the rule. And when such men 
have charge of the government of a people, we have as 
perfect a government as imperfect human nature can 
ever devise and successfully administer. But alas! the 
dreamer and the idealist have no place in our government 
to-day. The low politicians, and the vulgar rich, just have 
things according to their own sweet will. Those who would 
bring us all up, very near the idealist's levil, if they could, 
are generally relegated to the rear, where they can neither 
be seen nor heard. Their cries of warning are not heeded 
now ; but one day when God calls a wayward world to a 
stern reckoning, He will have mercy on all of those who 
have devoted their lives to the higher ideals. Not one of 
us can say, even then, that we did right — all the time. But 
as foi me, if I can say, "I did my best; I followed the 
light," — I shall be satisfied! 

And in conclusion I can of a truth say, on this fair spring 
morning ideals ox every sort surge in my brain. I know 
what I believe is best, but I cannot express it all now. As 
the years roll on, 1 may be permitted to write it out. Any- 
way, I shall never cease to hope for the realization of my 
one great, heroic dream. I see the green of the leaves and 
the light of the day, feel the warmth of the sunlight and 
the kindness of every one around me; therefore I must be- 
lieve in higher ideals. I must believe that there exists, 
somewhere, the ideal life. I realize my own human weak- 
ness, but I am encouraged. When I see a little innocent 
child. I am encouraged and refreshed. Somehow they al- 
ways make me think of the time when I was a child, not 

39 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

knowing care or sorrow. So may it be with me always, is 
my desire 



MY HEART'S DESIRE. 

Every person living has a "heart's desire." For many 
long years I, mysdf, have felt it in my heart. Somewhere 
in the unknown realms of mystery, there is something 
which, I believe, would satisfy me — if I could only attain 
it. Ever since I was a child, I have dreamed of the day 
when I should be in better circumstances. 

I wish always to be a free man. 

^ ;|< * % jfs % % '^ % J)< :fc H- * 3* 

But many great men began poor. Charles Dickens, 
Abraham Lincoln, and Thomas E. Watson are illustrious 
examples. And by my own efforts, I have managed to im- 
prove myself and my surroundings very much. I have 
labored very, ver\ hard ; but the labor of it is nothing, so 
that I succeed in my determination to make a name and a 
fortune for myself — so that I realize my heart's desire. 

I long to acquire a liberal education, of the sort which has 
made Watson famous. I would — if I could — wade through 
oceans of books, if I could thereby become an educated 
man. I have read an immense amount of trash in the 
weary course of my reading, but I ami not yet satisfied. My 
thirst for knowledge amounts almost to a mania. 

I desire to become well-informed on all subjects, and to 
meet distinguished personages. I desire to travel, and to 
"see the world." And sometimes I feel as if I should like 
to enter politics, and fight valiantly for office, position and 
influence. I have, indeed, entertained thoughts of one day 
becoming a leader of men, and leading the hosts of reform. 

40 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

I sometimes desire to conduct a newspaper, in which I 
would preach a doctrine of love and justice. I even have 
hopes of one day becoming a famous orator. But not so, 
any of these My physical affliction effectually forbids it 
alb .... 

% >;< :j< ;|< ;|: ^ % >|< t'fi >!< sjs ^c ;j< >S< 

I can study and write, and thus create many imaginary 
characters that will remain with me always. I can assail 
and master mairv great, huge subjects, and for the time 
live so absorbed in them as to forget, for a little while, my 
great grief and lamentation of spirit. I can attract a cir- 
cle of many warm friends around me, and perhaps acquire 
a vast amount of popularity 

To have some ore to love you, trust you, and go through 
life with you, sharing your joys and sorrows; to have some 
one — "the dearest one" — to smooth your pillow, to watch 
by you in your last moments, is almost, if not quite, heaven 
on earth To haw some one to turn to in the evenings, af- 
ter your day's work is done; and when you are "just too 
tired for anything," to have her — only her — to illumine 
your home with good cheer — ah! that is what every true 
man wants. And when the time to go comes, I somehow 
believe that his going will be the easier if the one woman 
takes the vigil by his bedside. 

. . . I have deliberately resolved to continue on in 
my course. And if the world should crush me, with all of 
my own ideals too. it might find the task just a little more 
difficult of accomplishing than it would think. 

-J; ^c ;|< 3,k :k ij< $z jfc >!< >Jc :Jc sfc >^ ^; 

MY ACHING VOID. 
I have received words of encouragement from Mrs. 

41 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

Mary E. Bryan, Hon. Thomas E. Watson, Rev. H. J. Mills, 
and many others, and I am very happy because of it all. 
Nothing- passes unnoticed or not appreciated by me. And 
I have long striven to live in obedience to the Voice within, 
and T pray always for rest of spirit. But let it pass, for 
the time I have at last lived to realize some of my fondest 
dreams. Everywhere I go, people seem to wish me well. 
I really have nothing to complain of. Not one has been 
unfaithful to me. The remembrance of old times often 
makes me sad ; but that is natural, I suppose. I have writ- 
ten much along- this line, and could write much more. But 
T won't. My readers may not, perhaps, enjoy so much of 
my sad, melancholy ruminations. 

Nevertheless, I believe I will be pardoned for writing 
just a few more words, expressing- my aching void. My 
writings are my truest comfort. For I somehow feel a 
great relief of mind, whenever I write down some of my 
innermost thoughts. I may never realize my heart's desire; 
but that will, after all, never reallv trouble me. T can, if I 
will, receive consolation from books, inspiration and en- 
courag-ement from my surrounding's, rest and recreation 
from people, and thus manage to enjoy life all mv davs. 
Many times the fight will be hard, but I shall never g-ive up. 
Friends may forsake me at the most critical time, but I shall 
not allow that to discourage me. The battle will be the 
harder for me because I must content myself to fight alone, 
in a certain sense. But I will be found true to the right, 
always. South Carolina will never have a truer son than 
this crippled man ! 



THE FIRE. 
Those who have always lived in the rural districts of a 

42 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

country, never know very much about the outside world. 
To many of them, life is indeed very simple; and from 
generation to generation they continue to do just as their 
fathers did before them — with never a thought of rising 
to higher levels. And, in considering this phase of human 
life, 1 am almost constrained to believe that the rural life 
and customs of our people would furnish much material 
and inspiration for the author who desires to write in a 
solid and truthful fashion. Tom Watson says that books 
are valuable only to the extent that they tell the truth ; and 
while we have an immense quantity of totally worthless 
literature, which people will persist in devouring, there is 
really no necessity for such a poverty of genius on the part 
of our American writers. The quiet rural communities 
should be the theme of innumerable writings that ought 
never to grow old The book which pleases, the story 
which charms is the one which illustrates and directs, or 
develops, one's highest and most elevating thoughts; and, 
long after it has been read, the sentiments which it inspir- 
ed in the reader's heart will still linger with him, and com- 
fort him when everything elese fails. 

And, as I was saying, those who live in the country gen- 
erally lead very quiet lives. Often does it seem that our 
lives out here are really monotonous; for we have nothing 
that would be very likely to put the fiery energy into us, 
like those who live in and around public places. Neverthe- 
less, the country is not, in comparison with the town, quite 
dead yet. Indeed, it is now on the verge of a great awak- 
ening ; and one day it is going to show itself in a very strik- 
ing fashion. .And, viewing it in the truest, and widest sense 
of the word, the country is full of hope and promise. 

43 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

There's life in the old land yet, and I wish to have a part 
in developing it. But I am digressing. 

In my home neighborhood we do, occasionally, have an 
exciting episode; and it is of one of them I wish to write, 
since it impressed itself upon my memory in a way that I 
can never forget. Sometimes a mad dog comes along, oc- 
casionally an accident involving destruction of life or pro- 
perty happens, or perhaps some careless person "lets the 
fire out" on a windy day. And nothing that I have ever 
witnessed produces quite as much excitement in the coun- 
try as a raging- forest-fire. I have witnessed several of 
them in my life, but will tell only of one in this little sketch. 
Somehow, I have a strange, far-away longing to write 
about only those things which have remained in my mem- 
ory, without my putting forth any particular efforts to keep 
them there. 

One night, several years ago, my mother looked out 
through our south window. The moon was not shining, 
and the sky was nearly covered with broken, floating clouds. 
The wind was blowing, too, and — what light was that she 
saw glimmering in the woods, just back of the barnyard, 
or a little coutheast of it, rather ? Ha ! it must be a fire. 

The alarm was shouted. "Fire! fire!" was the cry, echo- 
ing far and away. People were aroused out of their sleepy 
beds, frightened nearly out of their wits at — they scarcely 
knew what. Some of them hastened to the scene as quickly 
as possible ; and others remained behind, — to imagine all 
sorts of sillv things, and to work themselves into a frenzy 
generally. 

The wind blew, the fire raged, darkness reigned, and the 
frightened citizens contested the angry flames with all of 
their might. Over stumps, rocks and hills; in and out and 

44 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

through hollows and thickets — they hardly knew where 
they were much of the time — they battled; falling, stumbl- 
ing, climbing, groping, cursing and shouting — they labored 
on. All through the night the battle raged. No general 
commanding led vhese valiant soldiers ; no drums beat, to 
nerve them onward ; no flag waved above them, as an em- 
blem of their courage and devotion; the battle just raged in 
its own irregular, furious way. 

Bui- after almost super-human efforts, the flames were 
subdued. No lives were lost, and only some wood and 
lumber were destroyed, besides what destruction of trees 
resulted as a natural consequence of the fire. I had 
a very aggravated case of the toothache on the night of the 
fire, and I believe I was frightened even more than I cared 
to admit. And it took some of the fire-fighters at least a 
week to recover from the effects of their night of strenuous 
exertion; — while others were so angry with the "triflin' 
thing who set the woods on fire," that their physical powers 
were not seriously impaired by it. 

So you see. gentle readers, that we of the country, the 
backwoods country, do sometimes have something to stir 
us up. 



"RICHARD." 

Away out in the backwoods of South Carolina, there 
lives rather a unique character in the person of a negro 
dwarf, whom we shall call "Richard," the banjoist. He is 
nearly four feet tall ; humpbacked and short of waist ; 
square-headed and very black ; and has a huge blister on his 
left ear, and a mouth full of even, white, pearly teeth. He 
seldom shuts his mouth, and so his teeth can be seen most 

45 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

of the time. It is said that his nurse dropped him when 
he was an infant, and broke his neck. Hence his deformity 
of person. But T am of the opinion that he is just as he 
was made; though that is neither here nor there in this lit- 
tle sketch. 

I have known Richard ever since I was a child, having" 
been accustomed to seeing him pass my home quite often. 
And one day, several years ago, I was out in my piazza 
with my banjo. I saw him coming. "Now's my chance," 
I thought. So I requested him to stop, and play some for 
me. He gladly did so ; for he is a noted banjoist, and takes 
delight in playing for "de white folks." He sat and pbyed 
and sang several of his own peculiarly mournful songs, 
some of his own composing, in a manner that was really 
charming. It seemed, somehow or other, that the mourn- 
fulness of his bodily deformity would insist on finding ex- 
pression through the medium of his songs; for each one 
of them had a strange, sad, plaintive, far-away ring to 
it. He sang in a harsh, unmelodious voice, but his pick- 
ing of the banjo was really very musical. 

The next time I had the pleasure of hearing him perform 
on that instrument, he was making the music for a party. 
In those days, he seemed happiest when playing for a 
party : and no matter how much noise the dancers would 
make, one could still hear Richard's voice and banjo above 
it all. I have sat for several hours at a time, enjoying his 
music as we 1 ! as I ever enjoyed anything of the sort, in 
those days. Somehow, Richard, the banjoist, always ap- 
pealed to me in a way that was, at once, both fascinating 
and irresistible. 

But now I seldcm see him, and never hear him play his 
banji any more. We, the old-times and I, have drifted 

46 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

apart; and now times are different. I sometimes wonder 
if he still plays. I suppose he does, tho', for he used to 
love his banjo very much. Some nights he would play, in 
his own little cabin home, until the tears came into his eyes, 
so intense were the emotions thus stirred to life within his 
breast. Ah ! the outside world never knows what goes on 
behind ihe screen, after the lights are turned on, and when 
all mankind is locked in the arms of Sleep. If such were 
not the case. I beheve it would all be better. If such were 
not the case. I believe people would be more thoughtful, 
and less inclined to meanness. If such were not the case 
I believe that there would be less sorrow, and more joy, 
in the world to-d<.y. 

Nevertheless, I must believe that the Father knows best. 
Viewed in their true light, we are constrained to believe 
that the plan of creation and the order of human life to-day, 
as we understand them to be, are better than anything else 
that mankind might originate. The thoughtful person, al- 
ways and everywhere, finds this to be true. 

So I bid my banjoist farewell. I thank him for the les- 
sons he has taught, for the pleasure he used to give me. 
I hope that if the Father so wills, I may one day hear 
Richard play and sing once more. I do see him, occas- 
ionally, now,-— but not often. Even as we grow up, times 
change, and change rapidly for all of us. 



THE BANJO. 

There is one instrument of music which, because of old 
associations and fond memories of the past, I desire to give 
a prominent place in this work. I know not how others 
may see it, or in what light the musical world so considers 

47 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

it, but to me it is altogether fine, sweet and musical. It is 
the first instrument that I can remember hearing played; 
and ever since that far-off evening, when I was scarcely 
more than a baby and when some colored men played on it 
in my uncle's kitchen for the first time within my recollect- 
ion, I have loved the banjo — loved it as I have loved no 
other instrument, save the guitar. And sometimes it is 
rather difficult for me to decide which I love best, the banjo 
or the guitar. 

I have spent many a delightful hour, listening to the ban- 
jo; indeed, for several years of my early life I heard no 
other instrument — excepting, occasionally, when I heard 
some chance person or persons play on the French harp. 
"The Guitarist" was, for several years and ere she took up 
the guitar, a banjoist of ability; and she gave me many a 
pleasant hour of delightful entertainment. 

But during the later years of my life I have not had so 
very much of the banjo; for things have changed in my 
home -neighborhood. As we grow older, it is best that 
changes should come, too, we know ; still, one cannot avoid 
experiencing rather a melancholy feeling whenever one is 
reminded of the happy days of the ever-receding past. We 
all would fain keep them with us — if we could. But we 
cannot, and therein lies the saddest phase of the whole realm 
of creation. For is it not peculiarly mournful, solemnly 
sweet and sad, to think that our happiest times are gener- 
ally the shortest of all? 

The first thing that ever touched the chords of harmony 
within the human breast was music; and ever since man's 
mournful fall from Grace, humanity has sought consolat- 
ion from it. The happy, loving, joyous, thoughtful souls 
of all ages have loved it, danced to it, and wept over it. 

48 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

When everything eise fails to bring- order out of chaos, in 
the human mind, music is invariably the last resort. And 
since we must know that God, Himself, does live in beauty 
and harmony everywhere, music will evermore have a 
prominent place in the Kingdom of Love. 

The banjo is, therefore, a great civilizer. Its resonant, 
melodious twang is one of our most prominent assets ; and 
it will always have devotees sufficient to keep it in fashion. 
A youthful inmate of my home is now a banjoist, and I 
never weary of his music. And as the banjo is a plainly- 
constructed instrument, almost anybody can even make one, 
which puts it within the reach of those of the very humblest 
of means. 

In other parts of this work there may be found other al- 
lusions to the banjo; as I write only as I can think of some- 
thing appropriate. 



A BACKWOODS PREACPIER. 

Away out in the backwoods of the Southern States, 
there lives a quaint people. They are, for the most part, 
a plain, kindly, hospitable race ; and strangers will always 
find them prepared to accommodate. They seem to be 
quite satisfied with life as it is, too; for they do not take 
kindly to new innovations, every time. Nevertheless, they 
are, generally speaking, a sturdy, solid, kind-hearted peo- 
ple, whom it is often a genuine pleasure to be among. 
Not having been educated, they do not know what it is to 
put on airs, or to make any affectations whatever. They 
are just natural, and there is much to commend in their 
mode of living. They enjoy themselves most of the time, 
and they wish vou to do the same when among them. Many 

49 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

of them have an abundance of good, substantial food all 
the time, and the visitor is often almost compelled to eat 
too much, though he might often leave the table with the 
hostess complaining that he has "not eat 'nothin' hardly." 
These people know nothing of books, magazines, or news- 
papers — that is, numbers of them do not. They have 
schools and churches, too ; but they never seem to advance 
much in learning and intelligence. Their teachers are often 
extremely illiterate themselves, and so they can never see 
any good in "sich nonsense" as grammar, physiology. Latin, 
algebra, geography, and history : they flatter themselves, 
that they "kin teach readin', writin', 'rithmetic, an' spell- 
in','' but all other things are quite beneath their notice. 
Hence, away with all such ! Their ministers also are often 
very illiterate. .Many of them can scarcely read, but they 
can talk. And the people will, therefore, permit them to 
preach ; since they have a mistaken idea that none should 
preach except those who are called to the ministry, the pa- 
thetic part of their idea being, that they believe none but 
the uneducated are ever so called ! They know nothing about 
learning; and are, therefore, much prejudiced against all 
educated ministers of the Gospel. Poor deluded people! 
would that they were otherwise ! Would that I could en- 
lighten them 1 

It was my fortune, some years ago, to see and hear one 
of these "called preachers." He came from the mountains 
of western North Carolina, and was a regularly ordained 
minister of the Gospel, — though he could just read with 
some degree of intelligence. It was even said of him that 
he never learned letters until after he had married, when 
his wife taught him! I cannot, however, vouch for the 
truth of this statement; I knew him only as a kindly, emo- 

50 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

tional sort of a man, who was intensely in earnest, and 
wished to do what he could to advance the Kingdom every- 
where. He lacked in knowledge, learning and understand- 
ing", though : and this rendered him quite deficient. 

I heard him preach once. Poor man! he said nothing; 
for he had nothing to say. He delivered no message; for 
he had no words with which to give expression to it. He 
stirred up no spiritual excitement ; for he was incapable of 
anything of the sort. He said : "I don't know that I will 
take any text; I will just say a few words." (Pie did not 
use the word "shall.'') 

He then proceeded to read some of the Word, the portion 
he read being a part of John's Gospel — written by "illiter- 
ate, unlearned John/'' as he fondly expressed it, — thus ad- 
mitting his prejudice against education ! 

He rambled on in his discourse for an hour or more, now 
and then stopping to recover himself, as he wept much in 
his preaching. He seemed to have a message for the world, 
too ; still, he could not deliver it. He could not draw upon 
his imagination, could not touch the responsive chords in 
others hearts, could not arouse the sympathies of his audi- 
tors. 

Yet, that is the kind of religious instruction that hund- 
reds of our people have to receive year after year. Many 
of those who live in the backwoods never know what it is 
to rise from the dead, set level of their fathers. They never 
receive even the poorest of opportunities for self-improve- 
ment. No ; not one penny of Carnegie's money ever goes 
to them! No one ever sheds tears over the wretchedness 
of their conditions. Not one, among so many great hearts, 
ever reduces vast congregations to tears by describing their 
degraded lives, and making an appeal in their behalf. Not 

51 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

one, in short, ever seems to care for our own people nearly 
so well as they do for the heathen in far-away lands. Even 
the negro comes first, in commanding and receiving the 
sympathy and assistance of those who have money and 
things to give away. 

And this ignorance and illiteracy does not stop at the 
foot-hills : it comes right on up into our very doors. Ah S 
even the towns come in for their share of it. (One day, 
the author was seated in his room, writing and alone for 
the time He was quite busy at his task, when three wo- 
men came in He knew them whenever they entered the 
door ; for they were near neighbors, practically speaking. 
But he had never seen them before; that is, had never con- 
versed with them. 

He turned his chair, and prepared to entertain them till 
his mother and sisters should arrive. Now, they were 
wholly illiterate; not one of them could even read — and 
there was a large family of them. Of course, conversatioa 
was nearly out of the question for even just a short time ; — 
but I shall pass over that part of it and ask : "Why do we 
send money, learning, and talent to foreign lands, when 
thousands of our own flesh and blood do not even know 
the first letter?") 

Nevertheless, this sketch would fail of its object, were I 
not prepared to say that our poor people have at least a few 
champions. The Columbia State, the South's greatest 
newspaper, is one In its magnificent stand for compulsory 
education, it certainly challenges the admiration of lovers 
of progress, everywhere. Mr. Zach AIcGhee, the eminent 
Washington correspondent, is another. "The Dark Cor- 
ner," his great novel of backwoods life in South Carolina, 
wins for him very high rank as a leader in the moral uplift. 

^2 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

And the Hon. Thomas E. Watson is yet another. Ah! 
Watson is splendid in his great and profound learning, hon- 
esty of purpose, and magnificent courage. His rule is, "Let 
those who will, concern themselves about the far-off heath- 
en ; my sympathy and charity are for those who live nearest 
to me." 

(Since I am, in the foregoing, assaying to discuss a ques- 
tion of national importance, some of my readers may not, 
perhaps, understand my meaning just as it should be un- 
derstood. Therefore, I would most respectfully say, that 
as they proceed in the reading of the book, all obscurity 
will be found vanishing like clouds before a brisk west 
wind I purpose to "cover the whole ground" ere I shall 
consent to lay down my work. No room for unjust cen- 
sure shall be left ). 



RANDOM COMMENTS. 

I somehow feel that there is something in me, and that 
it must come out. In my heart, in my soul, there is a song- 
that is unsung, a s'ory which has not yet been told. There 
are times in my life when I seem to rise to very great 
heights, times in which I can almost — if not quite — draw 
aside the veil which screens the unknown from the view of 
the known. But it is not so. Not yet has man reached the 
place where he can say, "At last, at last! Ah! I now know 
the mysteries of the great unknown. I have spent many 
long years searching for this, and many times I have been 
driven to madness over it; — but now I know all." Not yet, 
I say, can man make such a declaration; — and he never 
shall make it. At the best, we know nothing. We learn 
as we grow older, too ; but our strength, our ability to live 

53 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

and to do, is in our faith and hope — and not in anything 
■else. 

The reader may, I am aware, consider the title of this 
book rather strange. And there might even be those who 
can scarcely understand why I should have selected such a 
name for it. But gentle reader, have you not, many times 
in your life, been "under the lamp" with a book, — long, 
long after everybody else in the house was sleeping, sleep- 
ing soundly and peacefully away? Have you not very of- 
ten closed the doors, lighted the lamp, drawn up the easy 
chair, get your favorite book, and prepared for the sweet- 
est pleasure known to us, — that of reading? Then, I say, 
if you have done this you can appreciate the suggestiveness 
of the name this volume bears. The name of a book ought 
alwavs to be its index too. 

This is really my first literary attempt, and I have pored 
over it long and earnestly. I dared to "let myself loose" 
in composing" it. and wrote just what I desired to write. 
But prudence demanded that I omit much of what I had 
written, therefore the volume is submitted to the reading 
public in its present shape. I "cut it out" in an altogether 
ruthless fashion, — although it was hard, very hard, for me 
to do it I lingered long and thoughtfully over page after 
page of the original manuscript. I somehow really wished 
to publish it as it was written, but I just could not. A kind 
of modesty, or something akin to it, compelled me to leave 
out nearly half of all that I had written. 

The reader may also think that some of this work lias 
been overdrawn. To many of them it might, indeed, seem 
that I have been carried away by the force of my own en- 
thusiasm. But think what you please : I care not. I have 
striven to see the better side of life; I have dared to think 

54 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

for myself; I have ventured to be original. I have often 
been wholly disgusted with some of those vile things 
known as "sex-problem" writings, therefore I have determ- 
ined to deal only in clean literature. Each individual mem- 
ber of the human race can, and will, settle the unmention- 
able subjects and problems, whether they are ever discussed 
in books or not. The reading public desires to be entertain- 
ed : it does not like to have its sense of decency shocked by 
vile exposures. Some of the physical culture publications 
are quite disgraceful. Ah ! what fool imagines that he can 
screen his own lustful passions (and practices) by calling 
all the rest of mankind prudes? Physical culture is all 
right, but it is no justification for immorality. 

Therefore, -I have written this work just for the enter- 
tainment of my readers. Taken as a whole, it might be re- 
garded as the embodiment of an ideal. And I do not be- 
lieve that there is one line in it to which an exception could 
justly be taken. 

"The Story of My Life and Work" was, I am constrain- 
ed to admit, somewhat of a disappointment to some of my 
readers. In my heart of hearts, somethig tells me that, with 
several of its readers it, was almost a failure. Yet, it is 
impossible for one to please everybody. I know that hun- 
dreds of those who paid for, and read, my first booklet were 
pleased, well pleased, with it. And therefore I was encour- 
aged to attempt another. I suppose it was just a certain 
kind of daring ambition which urged me on in my work; 
but whatever it was, it has rilled me with the desire irresist- 
ible to show what is in me. This work is, therefore not 
designed as a justification, but rather as a defense, of my 
earlier writings. I do not claim that it is perfect : I merely 
say that it is the best I could accomplish. The expression 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

and style are. at times, rather obscure; but as the reader 
proceeds everything will be made clear. 

This book was, originally, designed and begun as a vol- 
ume ro contain 100,000 words, the idea of such a work be- 
ing conceived one day while the author was penning the 
opening section ("Chat") of The Literary-Education De- 
partment, for The Gaffney Ledger. He forthwith proceed- 
ed to announce his intention of writing this book, as the 
readers of The Ledger can doubtless remember. In the 
first announcement, dated Nov. 12, 1909, he promised to 
publish "Under the Lamp" sometime "within two years 
from date" (the title had not then been selected) ; but since 
that time he has decided to divide his work into four sec- 
tions, publishing them in the order of one a year until his 
proposed work shall have been finished. This will be the 
author's first real work in the realm of literature. He has 
already made his debut in "The Story of My Life and 
Work." 



"BROWN-EYES." 

Once there lived a dear little girl, who had pretty brown 
eyes, wavy brown hair, a beautiful complexion, and pearly- 
white teeth. Her voice was soft, sweet, and low ; and all 
of her movements were exceedingly graceful. She had the 
art of being quite agreeable all the time. 

She "dearly loved fun," as she often said ; and was never 
happier than when engaged in that pleasantest of all 
pastimes- — having fun. The funny side of her nature was 
genuinely humorous, finely developed, too; and she never 
saw "anything funny" in grossness, rudeness, or vulgarity. 

She always seemed to be happy and contented : with her. 

56 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

one almost believed, life was truly one "grand, sweet song*" 
every clay; for she was oh! so cheerful, — so very cheerfu-L 
But it was not so: she only had the tact of concealment. 
Often when her laugh was merriest, her manner gentlest, 
her heart was nearly breaking with sadness. Ah! it was 
only at such times that her beautiful nature showed itself 
to greatest advantage, that she seemed almost to melt from 
very tenderness. Nevertheless, but few ever knew of this 
side of his nature; for she kept it well concealed. None 
ever saw her weep — though in the privacy of her own room 
she often wept much. She had her own little sorrows, sor- 
rows which were peculiar to her own gentle nature. 

She was gifted, in some ways. She sang beautifully and 
played on the guitar very sweetly. She loved babies, flow- 
ers, pictures, music, story books, and parties. She also 
liked the boys just a little — but not any too well. Some- 
how, she always had the peculiar gift — very rare — of giv- 
ing the boys a really good time with herself, while at the 
same time she unconsciously taught them to feel that they 
must remain at a safe distance. And any of the poor fel- 
lows would rather have died than incur her displeasure. 

She was not, however, intellectual, and all things of an 
intellectual nature made her tired. It was her way just to 
love, with all the intensity of her romantic little self, what- 
ever or whoever happened to appeal to her fancy. And 
thus it came about, once, that she — but let us pass over that 
part of her story. The reader can now understand why 
she had an "aching void," why she was so tender. 

Such was her nature that, once happily mated, she would 
have made home nearly a paradise for the lucky man. She 
was, indeed, a fine, beautiful fragile flower, — that would no 
doubt have withered away under cruel treatment. Although 

57 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

she was realty of a forgiving, forgetting temperament, any 
unkindness or rudeness hurt her very severely. So re- 
fined was her nature, that it was quite easy for the thought- 
less person to overthrow her little ideals. But she always 
rallied from such overthrows, arising stronger each time. 

Suffering, the sense of something lost to us for all future 
time in this life, renders only the heart, and not the fea- 
tures, beautiful. As time goes on, he or she of the "aching 
void" will gradually come to wear a countenance of mourn- 
ful sadness; although the sufferer might have her spiritual 
nature so finely developed, in later years, that eternal spring- 
will indeed reign m her heart forevermore. Such a girl 
was "Brown-Eyes," and she was an irresistibly, indescrib- 
ably lovely girl. 

To one who used to see her in her home, whither he of- 
ten 3;ied himself for pure love of being near her, she was 
a real embodiment of his own conception of the ideal girl. 
To see her moving- about in the performance of her home 
duties, to sit out in the piazza as she played and sang, or 
just in any way one happened to see her, she was ever the 
same fair, sweet little creature. 

She was natural. Some persons may put on, pretend to 
be what they are not; but she was not that sort. She had 
faults, too ; and it is not the purpose of this article to make 
an angel of a natural human being. Still, there are a few 
genuinely lovable creatures in this world ; there are a few 
whose natures are so beautiful that they form the connect- 
ing link between the earth and the heavenly spheres of life; 
there are a few who literally compel us to believe in the 
goodness and power of God, just by their own pure loveli- 
ness. Everybody's inner man dictates, and enforces, the 
truth of this assertion home to every heart. 

58 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

She loved to write, and to receive, pretty letters ; and 
while she wrote to many of her friends, she never wrote 
carelessly. Everything she ever wrote was characterized 
by modesty, delicacy, courtesy and simplicity of manner. 

One day there was a picnic at Holly Springs, and of the 
vast throng of people who were in attendance was one man 
in a wheel chair. He was a candidate, seeking the votes of 
the citizens, — and also their friendship and good will. He- 
had studied very hard for a long, long time, and his face 
was pale and fair. He also looked sad and care-worn, al- 
though his eyes gleamed with the true fire of genius when- 
ever he went on the platform, to address the voters. And 
such speeches that he did make. "They were simply fine." 
None of his opponents could "stand before" him, so very 
irresistible was his logic. He was really the one peerless 
speaker who combined infantine manners with those of the 
ablest orator that had ever been at Holly Springs ; and 
when he arose to make his speech, that day, he was at his 
best. He spoke just about one hour, and his effort won for 
him the whole Holly Springs district. 

The Man in the wheel chair had never been able to walk 
a step in his life, and had never attended school a day. But 
at this period of his existence he was really a well-educated 
man. His life had been very hard; and so he had, just in 
order to make living easier for himself, decided to enter 
politics. The time that he spoke at Holly Springs was 
during his first campaign. And when he arose to speak, 
he paused for just a moment to gaze over the crowd. There 
were some who wondered why he did this, but others 
whispered among themselves, "He is looking for some- 
body." That "somebody" was "Brown-Eyes." 

The Man was looking for the face of his inspirer; and 

59 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

when he saw her. somewhere out in the crowd, a great feel- 
ing of tenderest melancholy surged over his being for about 
the space of a minute, almost overwhelming him with its 
spell. For he had loved her, truly and devotedly, ever 
since he was quite a young man. Now he was away past 
his majority, in years, although the balmy fragrance of 
eternal spring still reigned in his heart. Because of his 
physical affliction, he had never told her of his great love 
for her. He had never said much about it to any one. al- 
though a few of his most intimate friends were aware of 
it. And I suspect that she also knew it — though it was of 
course not her part to make the advances which are neces- 
sary to the perfecting of such matters. 

So the years wore on. The man was finally elected to 
the governorship of his State. Pie was highly honored, 
and wherever he went the people seemed to unite in paying 
him attentions. But he never forgot the girl of his dreams, 
and sometimes he was inexpressibly sad. Somehow all of 
his popularity, honors, and flattery never could quite over- 
come his feeling of melancholy; and sometimes he was 
dangerously near the dark Vallev. 

One day the news came that there had been a bad wreck 
of a train, on the railway somewhere south of Holly 
Springs, in which a number of people were killed and in- 
jured, — among the latter being "Brown-Eyes," who hap- 
pened to be returning home from Columbia, where she had 
been attending- school and where she had only recently 
graduated with very high honors. The doctor pronounced 
her injuries fatal, tho' he said that she might live for some- 
time, with proper nursing. 

Soon the new? of the sad event reached the Governor, 
and he forthwith proceeded to hasten out to her home. As 

60 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

he neared the house, he could perceive signs of inexpressi- 
ble mourn fulness. He went in, and found that she had 
only a few hours to live ; but she was calm, serene, and hap- 
py. His first look told him, at once, that he himself was 
the one man now. Ah ! they both knew the truth at last. 
He bent over, taking her beautiful lily-white hands in his. 
He was so full of emotion that speech was not possible, 
nay, it was a scene too holy for the sound of human voices 
just then. She passed away as she had lived — in a manner 
beautiful to behold. The light of life almost went out for 
the Man in the wheel chair when he saw that she was no 
more. 

He was, however, able to attend the funeral. It was on 
a fine Sabbath morning in July, and all Nature was at rest. 
Everything seemed to unite in worshiping the Father. The 
funeral sermon was delivered by a young man, just begin- 
ning his career as a minister, and at times he was sublimely 
eloquent. No such sermon had ever been heard in the 
Holly Springs church before. 

Then came the mournful procession to the cemetery. 
The man had requested the entire congregation to unite in 
singing Her favorite hymn, "Rock of Ages," after which 
they all sang "Jesus, Lover of My Soul" and "Nearer, My 
God ; to Thee." 

In after years, the Man in the wheel chair became tired 
of politics, and decided to retire to private life. He had 
fought a long, hard fight, and had come out victorious all 
along the line. But now he was getting old, and wanted 
a rest. He became sick, and soon he felt that he was 
nearing the end ; but he was not afraid. 

In a little churchyard at Holly Springs there are two 
graves, marked by a plain slab of pure white marble and a 

61 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

bed of violets and roses, over which two fine magnolias 
spread their beautiful branches. 

On one side of the slab are these words, indelibly carv- 
ed into the stone : 

"They loved each other in life, and in death they were 
not parted." 

Tims ends the story of "Brown-Eyes," one of the finest 
characters that ever lived. The world rolls on as it always 
did. and knows nothing of this beautiful story except what 
I have set forth in the foregoing. Nevertheless, the heroine 
of my story will always remain my dream girl. 



SUMMER (1910.) 

Summer, the pleasantest time of all the year, is with us 
once more. We are glad — we are happy — we are rejoiced. 
Yes ; for we love the beautiful summers of Dixie as we love 
our souls' mates 

All nature is in harmony with itself now. "Bids fair to 
rival all previous summers, in beauty of form and color,'" 
we inwardly say. 

Everything seems to be sweet and good, pleasant and 
beautiful, calm aid serene. The birds sing, the flowers 
bloom, the farmer c work and sing in the fields, the sun 
shines warm and bright, the sky is a beautiful blue, the 
wind sighs a melancholy requiem through the tops of the 
trees, light billowy clouds float above, and the summer is 
often refreshed by those cooling things called summer 
showers. Such is the "good old summer-time" in the sun- 
ny South. 

Babbling brooks, limpid streams, sweet willows, shady 
banks, are other pleasant things that must be taken in con- 

62 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

nection with summer, What is more pleasant than bathing 
in the summer streams, among the sweet willows? What is 
more health-giving than to inhale the pure atmosphere of 
the summer woods? Life is really worth living, now that 
the summer is here. 

Spring comes, and we look eagerly forward to the ad- 
vent of summer; summer comes, and soon we think, in a 
rather melancholy way, of the dear old autumn. And thus 
goes life with us all the time. 

The wailing whippoorwill is heard in the mead, when 
most other birds are silent — for he sings only at night; the 
mocking-bird makes strange, sweet music near our doors ; 
the July fly chants his lovely song out in the fields when the 
sun shines its wannest ; the cheerful little katydid sings 
away all night long. I have somewhere called the whip- 
poorwill "America's favored nightingale" — and I see no 
reason, now, for taking the expression back. For, really, 
isn't it the prince of songsters among all of America's 
feathered inhabitants, excepting the mocking-bird? 

Dixie is, to us who love her, the best country in all the 
world. Italy is fine, no doubt ; but give me the "sunny 
South" for my home, always. Cuba, the Queen of the An- 
tilles, is a gem; but the sunny South is quite as beautiful, 
in summer, as that fair little island is said to be. 

Truth constrains us to say that the summer is not always 
so lovely; but why not put forth the bright side? Why not 
tell only of pretty things and scenes? No reader loves dry 
reading; and in this essay on summer, the author has de- 
termined to write from the point of view of a true lover. 
It is his purpose to go down deeply into his subject, giving 
the best thought and aspiration that he can, to summer's 
many, various, and hidden meanings. It might be that 

63 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

some will consider the subject unworthy of such an essay; 
but I believe all lovers of beauty will see in it the germs of 
a real inspiration. 

Silence reigns supreme in the old house when these words 
are being" penned this calm summer morning". Out at the 
barn a hen n making- a noise; and a July fly sings its sweet 
summer tune out somewhere in the fields — which are green 
with growing; cotton. But near me naught is heard, save 
the licking of my little clock. And such an inspiration is 
its ticking"! I should be really a genius if I were able to 
give expression to every sentiment which this clock in- 
spires within me. — But I am digressing. 

Some davs the peculiar melancholy of summer seems t© 
enter one's being. He loves it, is strengthened by it, and 
can conceive of nothing better than this "peculiar melan- 
choly." Yet the joy of it is always oppressive. It is simi- 
lar to the feeling inspired by the "loved and lost," — al- 
though it is better, much better, to have loved and lost, than 
never to have loved at all. And these calm summer days, 
therefore, are very conducive to my happiness. A book, — 
"Evangeline," "Lucile," or "The Prince of the House of 
David," — read in connection with the "summer's spell," is 
nearly enough to bring happiness back to my heart. For 
the time I really forget that I ever had a heart-breaking" 
sorrow. My life is in my work, my books, and my love 
of Nature. I put off this particular writing till summer 
should have come, just in order that I might have the ad- 
vantages of *hese soul-satisfying days. I see the Father's 
loving kindness, shining like the King of Day, in all na- 
ture, and through all of Nature's handiwork ; and I wonder 
at all the badness that is permitted to go on! So mourn- 
ful — so mournful! 

64 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

In whatever way you might take it, the summer in Dixie 
is perfectly lovely. I often stroll out into my piazza, after 
the day's work has been done, and gaze out over the beauti- 
ful cotton fields. I believe that if I were a poet I should 
sing a divine melody in honor of the sweetness of. Nature 
in the sunny South. I have just finished reading "Evange- 
line," that fine poem by Longfellow; I have, perhaps, just 
come in from a ride in my wheel chair; or may be I have 
been driving all day with my faithful companion, several 
miles from home. But, let the time, or the scene, or the 
circumstances be what they will, I always see the summer 
in the same '"ght. 

And the summer nights ! What scene, in all nature, can 
ever be more lovely than a summer night ? The light, fleecy 
clouds form its necklace ; the pretty little stars make up its 
bouquet of angels' forget-me-nots; and the katydid and 
whippoorwill strike the strings of their lyres in honor of 
the summer night. The flowers also lend an added charm 
to it, by sweetly perfuming the air, 

It has always been my keenest delight to enjoy these 
beautiful nights of summer. Sometimes when the moon 
shines and when there are light foamy clouds floating 
above, a shower o! rain comes. Then it is that the night 
is mysteriously beautiful, and seems to be weeping for the 
dead and gone summers of the dear past. I am sitting out 
in the piazza, enjoying just such a night as the foregoing 
words speak of. Everything is calm and serene around 
me ; and. as a sort of accompaniment to the pattering rain- 
drops, I fall to musing over the summers of other lands. I 
am happy at this moment, — but how is it with all of my 
other fellow-creatures? For I can never think of my own 
happiness without also thinking of the sorrows of others. 

65 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

Somewhere, even now, some weary traveler is no doubt 
toiling sadly, and almost hopelessly, along a warm, dusty 
road. His way is hard, but he perservers just as long as he 
can. — But here I sit, penning a eulogy on summer! And 
thus you see that life is a paradox, and contradicts itself 
everywhere. 

Now let lis transfer the scene to the tropics. The sun 
shines warm, very warm, and the air is oppressively heavy 
with the sweet perfume of innumerable flowers — flowers 
which grow only in the warmer climates. But even in the 
hottest of weathei*3 and climates, something is always pro- 
vided to alleviate the severity. Every desert has its oasis, 
every sun is tempered to agreeableness by the winds and 
rains. And thus it is that we love the summer, and see in 
it the loving kindness of the dear Father. 

Bui the summer is once more passing away. I have en- 
joyed it immensely. Many days have I spent out in my 
piazza, in happy conversation with my old-time friends, 
looking out over the fields and woods and at the mystic 
August skies. Ah ! those were happy days ; for I was a 
child then. I had never known care nor sorrow, I had never 
before tasted of ambition, I had not as yet come to a real 
knowledge of life's meaning. I sigh heavily for the dear, 
sweet, beautiful past. 

Tread lightly, gentle reader, as you read these closing 
lines. Disturb me not, for a little while. Allow me to 
finish my time of sweetly musing over these closing days 
of summer. Let me cause all of my old-time friends and 
pleasures to pass in grand review before my mind's eye. 
Permit me once more to think of Her. Ah ! dear Little 
Girl, you are indeed the flower of my sad heart. My sins 
have been great, great and almost unpardonable, I once 

66 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

thought. But not so. If we do sin, God will and does for- 
give us. And somehow I have learned to associate the 
light, airy form of my dream-girl with the goodness and 
purity of God. Even now I seem to have risen to heights 
sublime; and even as I pen these words, can of a truth say 
that I have forgiven all personal injury. The world goes 
grandly, gaily, heedlessly on; — but I am entitled to the 
privilege of enjoying it in my own way. 

FRAGMENTS. 
Lillian, sweet Lillian! .... 



. To me, it (the world) was all a huge book, 
the leaves of which I had not as yet turned : . . She 
has been my one inspiration in many dark hours. Some- 
how; I have caught the loveliness of her being in my soul, 
the image of her dear face in the faces of other girls; . 

. . . And why did I do so many other absurd 
things ? Just because I loved a little girl, a mere child ! 

. _ . . Lilian, too. became a guitarist. She played 
and sang beautifully. And . . . she often "twanged 
her strings" 'or my own especial amusement. . . . 

. . For my newspaper work, and my wider read- 
ing as well, had taught me that human nature is the same 
in all ages and in all climes. 

I gazed long and thoughtfully at my great row 
of books, my rolfc and stacks of manuscript, my old com- 
positions, and the pigeon-holes of my desk— filled, as they 

67 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

were, with letters and post cards, over some of which I 

used to cry. , . . 

***** 

I remembered the parties which I used to attend, and 
the good times T had. I remembered one night in partic- 
ular, which I spent at my uncle's home. We had a party 
there, and. because of a sudden shower, I remained over 
night. My »ld aunt — God bless her ! — put me to bed, her- 
self, in her own little room, just as she always did when I 
was a child. She was far-advanced in years then, too; 
but somehow she seemed younger than usual, that night. 
(I suppose she was thinking of other days.) It was, I 
believe, an intense joy for her to be permitted thus to min- 
ister to my needs once more. And ere long I was sleeping 
as soundly and peacefully as a little child, — my last wak- 
ing thoughts being of Liliian, fair Lillian. 

I remember one other time that I was at a neighbor's 
home. Lillian and her brother, (who was my faithful 
friend,) were there. We sang and played some that night, 
and I believe I never felt better in my life. After I had 
retired the melody of her sweet voice seemed to ring on 
in my soul till far into the night. Ah! had the beautiful, 
harmonious soul of "Dreamy-Eyes" once more found ex- 
pression through Lillian? I almost believe that it had. 

I remembered the time I went out into the country, sell- 
ing my little book. Lillian's father was kind enough to 
accompany me on my first trip. We did not reach his 
home until some time after the twinkling stars had peep- 
ed forth. We were very tired, too, so we retired early. 
He took me into the little room, (where I had spent so 
many pleasant nights with my faithful friend,) and put 
me to bed. He left the lamp burning, but turned low, 

68 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

making the room dark and shadowy. I could not sink into 
the dreamy land of sleep at once, however, tired out as 
I was; somehow my memory was busy. I just wanted to 
think. 

I remembered how I had lain and dreamed of her many 
times. The last time I was at Mr. M's. I slept in the same 
room which "Jake" occupied when he made his home with 
Mr. M. That morning, as the light gradually made its way 
through the east window, I gazed about. "Jake" had. in 
one of his funny moods, framed a number of his old posi: 
cards making one great huge picture of them, which lie 
put up in a conspicuous place for everybody to see. I gaz- 
ed at that "absurd plaster" till the tears came into my eyes; 
—for they were the cards which she — dear child — had sent 
"Jake" when thev, he and she, were "sports!" Ah! silent 
relic of happy days long departed ! I would gladly have 
kept "Jake's" picture always, if I could have done so, I 
thought 

I remember how in my leisure moments I would play 
on my autobarp, such grand old tunes as "Martyn," 
"Pleyel's Hvtnn," "Prayer," etc., till the tears would start 
to my eyes (And to this day I never hear those old tunes 
without a feeling of sadness coming over me). 

I remembered the time I visited my gentle cousin. She 
sang and played the organ for my enjoyment ; and as she 
thus entertained me in her home that afternoon, I thought 
more wistfully of Lillian than ever. 

I remembe*'ed the many pleasant "times" I once had with 
all of friends, but Jim and "Jake" I remembered best of 
all. Somehow they were more intimately associated with 
me than the others. "Jim," funny little soul that he was, 
had truly been a friend to me in my affliction and poverty. 

69 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

I remembered the many long, happy hours I had spent in 
penning "copv" for "The Ledger/' I believe those were 
really the happiest days of my whole life, everything con- 
sidered. I know they were the most profitable, from sev- 
eral points of view. 

Yes, I was at last an educated man. I was, I felt, able 
to fight the I'reat, fast, furious battle of life with the best 
of them. I had succeeded in all of my efforts, in an edu- 
cational way ■ for I had become a master of the English 
language and literature, grammar and the art of writing, 
arithmetic and all forms of business. And what was best 
of all. I was slowh' but surely growing stronger physically. 
I could not walk as yet ; but I had never dared to entertain 
any hope of walking, in this life, however, so I did not 
think much about that. 

I found work congenial to my taste in Atlanta, as also 
did my brothers. We went. But I could not consent to 
leave without bidding all of my kind friends a last fare- 
well, therefore T "visited round" among them for a few 
days I visited her home last of all. I told her mv plans, 
and asked her not to entirely forget me, though I did not 
wish, to pain her in any way. I hoped she would continue 
to enjov life, and that she would be as successful in all things 
as I had beer, in my studies. Then I requested her to play 
her guitar for me ; for somehow I once more desired to be 
a child again, listening to the strains of the guitar. Ah! 
how sweetlv she did sing and plav that calm summer eve- 
ning! My heart was full. I essayed to sing, too, but T 
c« mid not. 

That morning, ! departed. The sun shone brightly; the 
wind blew gently from the west, wafting the musical sounds 
of the birds' singing and the perfume of summer flowers 

70 . , 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

ever onward; and all nature was balmy with the breath of 
summer in the sunny South. I believe she was very sad 
when she gave me her hand, for perhaps the last time in 
this world, that morning. I know I was. 

But I will tell no more now. We soon reached Atlanta, 
mv brothers and I, and began work at once. Everybody 
there was kind to us, and we made great progress — con- 
sidering. We gradually became accustomed to our new 
surroundings and our work was easy, pleasant and profit- 
able. 

One clay I stood up at my desk in one of "The Geor- 
gian''." composing rooms, not exactly knowing why I did 
so. I then took a step forward. What ! was it possible that 
I was walking? God. in His infinite mercy, had at last 
given me strength to walk ! I lingered in Atlanta for a few 
more months, then I one day said, "Boys, you may stay 
here if you wish; I'm going back to South Carolina, and 
seek the fairest flower that ever grew." And so here in 
my little home T am. She and the tots are with me, and we 
are all very happy. She told me, in confidence, that she 
"never loved any other fellow" after I went to Atlanta. 

Gentle reader. T have many true friends, who would, I 
really believe, rejoice to see my life end just as this story 
has ended. But at this writing I am still working away in 
mv own little room. 



A DREAM. 

The lamp burned low and softly. No sound was in the 
room, save that of the old clock, as it quietly ticked the time 
away. On the wall, just above the great red lamp, there 
was a beautiful painting of "Night,*' on each side of 

7i 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE.'" 

which was a portrait of Father and Mother — the one calm 
and serene and stately in his old age, the other kind and 
gentle and benevolent in her own sweet way. And on the 
opposite wall of the room, just above the book case, there 
was a little Memorial in a pretty frame, which had been 
placed there in memory of the Little Girl. And near a 
table, which always stood in the centre of the room, sat a 
man in an easy chair reading. After a time, he laid aside 
the book, and fell to musing. He could not walk, the man 
couldn't, for he was a shut-in. And to-night he was alone, 
in his own beloved "den." He had just finished a work on 
his "Ideals," and as he sat musing for a while he could not 
forbear congratulating himself on his success. He had not 
reached his ideal, either, he knew; yet he felt that his labors 
had not been altogether in vain. 

In this room, wherein the man was sitting and which he 
called his "den," there were a great number of beauti- 
ful books, a fine old clock, a sofa, a number of small pic- 
tures, and just everything that goes to make up a student's 
retreat. The clock occupied the place of honor on the man- 
tel-piece, and the sofa was near the great south window, 
the window which afforded such an excellent view of the 
landscape. And to-night the man was supremely happy; 
indeed, the great, sad happiness of his soul w r as really op- 
pressive. All of his past history marched in grand proces- 
sion before his mental vision, and he seemed to see one 
bright form ^ery distinctly. And thus he fell asleep, and 
thus the old clock licked away. The man was no longer 
alone. He was in another and a different time, and near 
him was the object of his passions, the flower of his heart, 
the inspirer of his life. For many long years lie had loved 
her and dreamed of her. And now she was Ids — all his! 

72 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE.'" 

He seemed to have traveled back over the past years of his 
life, and once more become a young man — with the dif- 
ference that be was not a cripple, but was well and strong. 

Then his great dream continued. He seemed also to 
have a beautiful home, and was satisfied with life. His sur- 
roundings were pleasing to the eye and pleasant to live 
among. His pretty flower garden seemed to smile right in 
one's very face, and his music and books and pictures were 
a great delight 

He remembered the time he fell in love, and determined 
to win her for whom he would gladly have given his life. 
He remembered the time he proposed, out under the old 
apple tree, one morning in June. That was many years 
ago, but he =till remembered how he felt that morning. 
Ah ! he was so happy that he hardly ate or slept for a week 
afterward ; that is, he ate and slept without realizing it, so 
very sublime were his feelings. 

He remembered the fine summer day that he led her to 
the nuptial bower, sweet, blushing and beautiful. That 
morning, he got up in a dream, as it were, and seemed to 
see things only in their heavenly sense. Nothing mean en- 
tered his mind and even when he stood under the bower 
everything was beautiful— quite beautiful. 

The years quickly passed on. Messengers from the un- 
seen world brought them children, — one by one of whom 
had silently left them while they were yet children. It was 
oh ! so sad to think that all their little dears were out there 
in the cold church-yard, — although they realized, in their 
heart of hearts, that it was only the little bodies which now 
occupied that forbidding spot, — forbidding, yet made sacred 
by what it contained. The struggle of life had been very 
hard for these two ; but, such was their love for each other 

73 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE.'' 

that it had not always seemed hard. In fact, their career 
was rilled with sunshine much of the time, their most diffi- 
cult struggle being the giving up of their little fairies. 

The man's great education and love of learning and of 
the beautiful in all things, together with his superior talents 
and abilities as a leader, soon brought him into prominence ; 
and though he had never before had any especial desire for 
a strenuous public career, he had been almost dragged from 
his quiet little country home, and taken right into the poli- 
tical circles. His State was then in the throes of a o-reat 
crisis in her existence; and it was he who weathered the 
storm, though he was too modest ever to admit it. 

Then the Spanish-American war came on. The man 
had long been in profound sympathy with the poor, starv- 
ing, fighting, down-trodden Cubans; and so he was one of 
the first to volunteer from his State for service in Cuba. 
And when the ordei was given for the forward movement 
on Santiago, the man was delighted. He looked up at the 
flag, the most beautiful flag in all the world, and fairly 
swelled himself out with pride and patriotic feeling. He 
felt that he loved "Old Glory," that morning in Cuba, quite 
as well as he had ever loved anything in his life — unless it 
were his "Little Violet," whom he had left at home in dear 
old Carolina. Through the thick undergrowth of Cuba, 
under the burning tropical sunshine, in torrential rains, 
among the mosquitoes, they marched. They were, many 
times, quite weary, but they never thought of stopping until 
Santiago should be taken. 

Then peace once more reigned over fair Cuba, after so 
many long years of fighting, and most of the American sol- 
diers returned to their homes, satisfied with what had been 
accomplished by their arms. "Now," thought the man, "I 

74 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

shall at last be permitted to lead a quiet life." And so in 
his own little "rural retreat" he found peace and content- 
ment — but not joy. For about that time diphtheria, that 
ruthless scourge of little folks, came along, — taking all of 
his children away! It was quite a sad thing for the man; 
for he now knew that never again would children be allow- 
ed to gladden his home. 

Home was now quite sad and lonely for the man. He 
had all that is ever necessary to render life comfortable, 
but he was no longer happy. His books, music, flowers and 
pictures no longer brought peace to his soul. He had 
long desired to write, but now he had not the incentive 
which is necessary for composing. He did indeed strive 
against it with all of his might, but to no avail. He saw 
how She grieved, loo; but still he could not shake off the 
great, sad feeling of melancholy which he knew was set- 
tling over himi day by day. 

Ah ! the weakness of human nature ! He had once fan- 
cied that no trial, no trouble, no affliction, could ever be too 
hard for him. But alas ! he knew better now : he was very 
weak. He had yet one more lesson to learn, and it was 
very hard for him to become reconciled to his loss. He 
did rouse himself once, and begin work on a book. He 
labored all summer. He even fancied that he had risen 
superior to his troubles at last, and for a time he was really 
happy. She saw it and was glad, and for a time She al- 
most forgot her own share of their irremediable sorrow. 

But one fair, dreamy, mystical day in August, when all 
nature seemed at peace with God and man, he collapsed. 
He was writing away when the summons came. He weari- 
ly laid aside his pen, and took to his bed. For many long 
days he was ill. He hovered between life and death many 

75 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEX HOPE" 

times. Somehow, he really wanted to go, only he did not 
wish to leave Her. He knew that She would care, and 
would suffer much heart-breaking- pain were he to pass 
away. There were others who would sincerely regret to 
lose the friendship of this noble , gifted man, he knew; but 
it was only for her that he cared now. For was it not she 
who ministered to him so lovingly and faithfully now, she 
whose fair hands soothed his aching brow ? Ah ! he must 
live yet a little longer — for her dear sake. 

So one day early in November he had sufficiently recover- 
ed to be able to sit out in the piazza. It was now Indian 
summer and the weather was perfectly lovely. He sat and 
mused for a while by himself, then he called for her. She 
must enjoy the clay with him; for it would do her g'ood. 
After a while, he said, "Come, my dear, let us take a walk 
out in the autumn woods and fields ; for I want to see 
some of that youthful bloom brought back to your cheeks." 
And now let us draw a veil over the two lovers as they 
roam about in the woods. Theirs was the perfect love, the 
love which is as pure as Heaven itself; for it he had not 
loved her so well, he would not now be with her. There- 
fore, it were a sacrilege to let the world know what they 
did, said and thought, that day in the autumn woods. Bye 
bye, "O blissful day!" 

His physician had advised him to travel for a while, and 
so next year he and his Little Violet visited several foreign 
lands. They wandered abroad for two years, seeing, learn- 
ing and resting. They spent a part of their time in Cuba 
and South America, then they took in Europe, a part of 
Asia. Africa, the South Sea islands, China, Japan, the 
Philippines, and the western states of our country. They 
also took a glimpse of Canada. 

76 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

Then they once more found themselves at home, the 
dearest place in all the world to them now. He once more 
took up his pen, and wrote a number of great books ; one af- 
ter another of them followed in regular succession. They 
were real, live, sympathetic pen-pictures, well deserving of 
a place in every home. But alas ! the reading public never 
gave him that recognition which every writer desires. A 
few great hearts read his books, and sympathized with the 
author; but the public generally was heedless of all of his 
devoted efforts. But he never became discouraged. The 
public's indifference did pain him and disappoint him great- 
ly, although he never complained. He was advancing up 
into years now, too ; still he was as young in spirit as ever. 
His half a century and ten sat lightly upon his soul. 

The man began to write the story of his life and work, 
after which he intended to write no more. He was pecu- 
liarly fitted for such a task, as he was recognized as a 
superior critic, essayist, and writer on biographical subjects. 
For two long years he worked at his task, picturing his 
career, from the time he was a child, in the most wonder- 
fully graphic and fascinating style imaginable. Everything 
was told ; nothing was left out. It was really a heart-throb- 
bing- book, one destined to live for all future time. And 
the closing months of this work were very happy for the 
author, which happy and genial time had a most helpful 
influence on the book, making it close in a natural manner. 
At last it was finished, and the faithful scribe knelt in pray- 
er for its success as a giver of peace. 

One day, he was out among his flowers, admiring their 
beauty and contemplating the sweetness of all nature to a 
well-developed soul. He seemed to be in a dream, and was 
swiftly, silently moving on, in a state of perfect sublimit} 7 . 

77 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

Near him, all around him, everywhere, were numbers and 
numbers of ethereal beings, and the air was laden with 
sweet perfumes and harmonious sounds. — But just then it 
was shrouded in gloom, and I wakened with a start. I 
rubbed my eyes, and looked about me. The wind still sigh- 
ed and groaned through the trees and in at my south win- 
dow ; the air still was calm and refreshing; the sun shined 
on as it always shines in August; and it was just one of 
those typical, genuine, mystic, dreamy days which are 
known only when the last roses of summer begin to bloom. 
Gentle reader, a close and observing nature can find much 
truth in this, and the following poem — "Finis." 

FINIS. 
(By Albert Kinross.) 
My soul is shredded; I have sold 
The pieces here, the pieces there; 
My heart is bleeding, and the blood — 
I sold it here, I sold it there. 
And yet this soul it was my soul ; 
And yet this blood it was my blood. 
Still, in the end, I have known how to brave 
All disillusion, faced the best and worst; 
My hunger have I stayed and slaked my thirst 
In the hope ultimate, the trust in right; 
In the sad mystery that lives with Death 
And all the silent things that have no fear. 
So is the end no passage into hells, 
No dismal fumbling after sullen gods; 
No marriage with delight, 
No joy whose trumps sound heraldings — 
But quiet, and the closing of the years. 

— Harper's Monthly Magazine. 

78 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 
THE GHOST OF ROCKY BRANCH. 

Rocky Branch is a small stream somewhere in the north- 
ern part of York county. It is in a very hilly, rocky, and 
forbidding place. And right near this altogether lonely 
little creek there is an old-time dwelling which was con- 
structed of the logs hewn out of the pine forest more than 
one hundred years ago. The farm is a pretty one, although 
it is very lonely and quiet in the summer. A great orchard 
of apple trees gives the place a sort of restful appearance, 
even though the atmosphere is at all times oppressively 
melancholy. The house is said to be haunted, and not many 
people have ever cared to occupy it, — though it is not va- 
cant at this time. August must be a strange month to some 
of out natures. I know ; the month in which the spirits walk 
abroad, if one can really believe in such things. And it was 
in August that I spent a week at the haunted house some 
years ago, therefore that might account for the strange 
sounds which I heard, the queer things which I saw, while 
I was at Rocky Branch. Yet, it is true that I often heard 
the sounds of footsteps, and one morning I actually saw a 
man pass by in a brown coat! I was sot afraid; am; s: 
certain would I be that it was some one coming in that I 
never -once thought of ascribing the noises to the walking" 
of spirits from spirit land. Neither did I believe that the 
man which I saw was anything but a man. And, yet, the 
strangest thing about it all was that I had never been able to 
explain it Sometimes I would be sitting in the house, ri-.. c 
alone, when I would hear those footsteps. But look as I 
might, not one could I see. Everything would be as "still 
as still can be." Somewhere, a July fly might happen to be 
singing;, out in the apple tree ; but not a human being would 
be in my sight! And so I would just quietly settle down 

79 



UNDER THE .LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

to my work once more. One rainy morning I saw the man 
hasten by. He wore a brown, faded coat, and walked with 
a stoop. I never saw him again. And at night, all was 
quiet; my spirit friends never seemed to travel then. They 
preferred the daylight for their mysterious doings. 

One day I told my experience at Rocky Branch to old 
Mrs. Martin, who possessed some belief in the existence^ 
on earth, of supernatural beings. And when I came to that 
part of my story which tells of my having actually seen the 
ghost, she said, "Yes, you saw the ghost of Rocky Branch. 
That old house is haunted, and it is a wonder that anybody 
ever lives in it." Then she paused. 

"But," said T, wishing to draw her out, "you know some 
people do not believe in such things?" She sat silent for 
a while. She seemed to be thinking about something. "She 
does not want to talk," I thought. But at length I said: 
"Please tell me why you believe in ghosts and haunts and 
spirit; you know I just love a good ghost story." Then 
I paused for a while. 

"Well, it's a long, long story, but I'll tell you," she be- 
gan. Mrs. Martin was an excellent story-teller, and so- I 
delighted to have her thus humor my whims. She possess- 
ed fine powers of narration ; and this, with her imaginative 
nature, made her stories peculiarly interesting and enter- 
taining. 

"When I was yet very small my parents both died, and 
I was left alone and almost friendless, in the world. I 
had only one uncle, who lived in the house on Rocky Branch. 
He was a sour, crusty old thing, and nearly everybody was 
afraid of him. Even his wife, a gentle old soul, and his 
two daughters were afraid of him, and always tried to do 
what they could to please him — though they didn't succeed 

80 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

in doing it all the time. And such had been the. fierceness 
of the old man's temper that it had driven his only son 
away from home while still in his teens. They never heard 
from the boy from that day to this. They supposed him 
to be somewhere in the West, but they didn't know. And 
so it was to this sort of an abode I was taken when I was 
scarcely more than a baby. My old uncle treated me very 
well, although I never did become altogether accustomed to 
him and his queer ways. Somehow, I was really very 
much afraid of him. My aunt and cousins were, however, 
kindness itself; and I can never forget them. The girls 
were really quite beautiful and talented, and many a time 
have they lulled me to sleep with their sweet singing. And 
my aunt could not have been any better if she had tried. 
She it was who was the ever-present help in the times of 
her husband' p fierce eruptions of temper; and many a lick 
was kept off the backs of the poor suffering negroes by the 
gentle hand and wise influence. 

"The old man had vowed that his daughters should never 
marry, and so he would not allow any boys to come to his 
home. For some queer reason of his own, he had determin- 
ed that his two daughters should always remain at home, 
and conduct his farm just as he did, with the assistance of 
their faithful slaves, after he was no more on earth. Pie 
would have his own way, too. 

"But, contrary to my uncle's wishes and in spite of all 
that he could do, a certain young man fell in love with one 
of the girls. He was, I believe, one of the most charming 
and handsomest fellows I ever saw ; and it was only natural 
that a girl of Alice Knox's gentle, loving nature should re- 
turn the affection. In fact, I believe that she loved Marion 
Lacy almost in spite of herself, even; — for she really did 

81 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

not wish to become estranged from her father. But, as 
every one knows. love laughs at reason, throws prudence 
to the winds, calls common sense a mockery, and stops at 
nothing short of such insuperable difficulties as physical 
impossibilities sometimes prove themselves to be. There- 
fore Marion and Alice secretly exchanged letters for some 
time, and occasionally they would meet and have little tete- 
a-tetes all to themselves. And thus it came about that they 
were engaged ere my uncle was aware of anything at all. 

"Alice pondered long and thoughtfully. She considered 
the question from every point of view. At last she came 
to the decision that her whole future happiness depended 
upon — entered upon — Marion Lacy. So she went to her 
father one morning and informed him of her past doings, 
ending her little story by quietly saying, 'We are to be mar- 
ried at Ramah on next Wednesday, at the parsonage !' 

"The old man was speechless with rage. He had never 
before been trifled with in this manner, and of course he 
would not submit to it now. When he had sufficiently re- 
covered as to be able to speak, he informed his daughter 
that she should never marry that man — or any other. 

"So the day appointed for the wedding arrived. That 
morning. Alice made preparations to leave her dear old 
home — dearer than ever to her, now that she was leaving 
it forevermore. The gloom of inexpressible sorrow per- 
vaded the whole place, and the very air was filled with 
grief The dumb creatures, even, were quieter than usual ; 
and ] have thought since that both good and evil spirits 
must have been near — striving for the mastery. A tragedy 
of the deepest nature was imminent. 

"They, however, assembled at the breakfast table, being 
later than usual. Nobody wanted anything to eat: they 

82 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE " 

came to the table merely from force of habit. After asking 
the customary blessing, my uncle said, 'You remember what 
I have said, Alice, and all of you?' Then I slipped down 
from my chair arid ran away into the garden. 

"Ere long the ycung man drove up, and stopped his ve- 
hicle at the front gate. Then Alice went out and seated 
herself beside him. They drove rapidly away, a look of 
intense happiness being on the young fellow's face. But 
my uncle — where was he? Nobody knew. 

"By and by the parsonage was reached, and the young 
people entered hand in hand. The old parson met tV-e^v- at 
the door, informing them that some one wished L:i speak 
to them before they should proceed any further. Then Mr. 
Knox presented himself. He said, 'You two d > not marry 
to-day.' With that he reached for his daughter, and start- 
ed to the door. Being a powerful man physically, it was 
no trouble for him to fell the young man with a blow that 
rendered him insensible. Then, in spite of her protests and 
all, he placed her in his carriage and proceeded rapidly 
homeward. 

"When the young man had sufficiently recovered as to 
regain full possession of his faculties, he determined to have 
the fair Alice at any hazard. But alas ! he could, he found, 
do absolutely nothing toward carrying out his determina- 
tion ; — for he never saw Alice again ! She was taken away, 
one night, to another neighborhood. Her father, foolish 
man! thought that new surroundings and her being among 
other people would induce her to forget 'her mad passion,* 
as he called it. 

"But not so. Alice never returned home any more. She 
was so nearly heart-broken that a sudden illness soon 
brought her to her grave. 

83 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

"Then it was the old man's turn to suffer. He now saw 
how foolish he had been; and how cruel, and hard, and 
severe. Pie remembered the many times that he had im- 
patiently thrown the pleadings of the Gentle Spirit aside, 
and now his soul was overwhelmed with remorse. Never 
again was he the same man. And when he passed away, 
it was in a state of unrest — though the old parson assured 
us that all was well with his soul. 

"One day an old-time negro woman said that she had 
seen her old 'Marse' walking over the ground the night be- 
fore. My aunt did not believe it, and bade her never to tell 
it again. 

"But, nevertheless, the old negro really did believe that it 
was so, and said that we would all be convinced of it some 
time. And we were. 

"The years came and went. Changes rapidly made their 
advent into our home, now that the chain of the old mono- 
tonous routine had been broken at last. I soon became a 
grown woman, and decided to go out into the world and 
labor for myself. My aunt passed away soon afterward, 
the remaining person found a home of her own, and so 
the old place was left vacant. The war having become a 
thing of the past, the negroes also left. They vowed that 
they would never live at 'de ha'nted house' any more. They 
didn't. 

"One day, many years since all of this occurred, I wan- 
dered back to- Rocky Branch. My husband was no more, 
and somehow I was very home-sick and lonely. For 
though I had traveled far and seen much, I had never ceas- 
ed to love the old home and its melancholy associations. It 
was in the late summer when I returned, and the air was 
soft and still. The 'dry-fly' sang his last tune in the old 

84 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE " 

apple tree near the moss-grown, old-time well ; a few flow- 
ers still bloomed in the old garden; and the buildings were 
in ruins. I sat down under one of the apple trees, and fell 
to musing. I do not know how long I sat thus ; as I took 
no note of time. After a while I saw a man coming up the 
path. He was dressed in a suit of brown, home-made jeans, 
and walked with a slight stoop. He came up to me without 
speaking, or making any other sign whatever that he saw 
me, and sat down on a rock near by. I could not at first 
see who it was, but when he at last looked toward me I saw 
— my uncle ! I was frightened nearly out my senses until 
he spoke to me, just as he always used to do. The voice 
was the same except that it was not so harsh, grating and 
severe. He said, 'Ellen, I am the ghost of Rocky Branch; 
and I am fated to haunt this place, at certain times, for all 
future time. This is my great punishment. 1 Then he van- 
ished out of my sight." / 
I sat in a thoughtful mood for some time after Mrs. 
Martin had told her story. It was a good story, I thought; 
although I did not believe it. She told it for the literal 
truth, however ; and so I did not attempt to tell her my 
views on the subject of ghosts. I could not have, by any 
means, convinced her that ghosts exist only in the imagina- 
tions O'f some — perhaps a great number — persons. But 
anything of a mystical nature always appeals to humanity, 
and so we will ever love and tell and delight in such stories. 
And allow us to advise you all, gentle readers, that a ghost 
story never loses anything in the telling. Imagination is a 
most wonderful thing, and it can at times give out strange 
stories. Even the author's private opinion, publicly ex- 
pressed, is that a story is nothing but a story; and that if 
we did not have it with us in our times of loneliness we 

85 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

could hardly spend the time as pleasantly as we do. And 
what would a writer do without some imagination? Echo 
answers. "Yes; vvbat would he do? He would do nothing." 

I believe that, as the Author of our being, God has in- 
tended us to be free. He has never allowed us to be slaves 
to anything whatever. His Word is before us, in an open 
book, and invites, challenges, demands investigation. And 
as to doubts, fears, signs, old folk-lore tales, etc.. I have 
only this to say: They exist as a natural consequence of 
man's wickedness, and are here to seduce us from the path 
of right and truth They exist as the agents of the Prince 
of Evil, and are e^er present to do his bidding. They are 
here for a great and good purpose at last, and exist mainly 
as a warning for the benefit of all who wish to be free. And 
thus it comes about that good triumphs over evil in every 
instance. If man were only as thoughtful as he ought to 
be, this would be n fine old world in every respect. 

The secret of true and lasting happiness is very, very 
near. It is everywhere ; yet it is nowhere. It is near, and 
yet far off. It exists only for those who wish to find it. 

These stones stand written as stories — and nothing else. 
They are true in some cases, but all of them have a great 
•deal of imaginary work to them. In tire last chapter, each 
one of them will have .proper mention and explanation. 
Nothing that is really in place shall be left out; for I wish 
to be understood. Hard to believe as it might seem, there 
are mam- people who possess no understanding. Even the 
simplest of things are "hard knots" to them.. But tire}' 
have my sympathy, and I wish to explain to them the mys- 
teries of the art of writing stories. I wish to be solid 
along all lines. And if there is anything in this book that 
does injustice to any one. I shall deplore it. That I have 

86 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE " 

drawn my characters from real life I do not deny. I could 
not resist the temptation to sketch some of the fair girls 
who have encouraged me. 



THE AUTHOR'S POSTCRIPT. 

It is finished. The work over which I have labored for 
several months is now finished. It lies near my hand, and 
I now take un my pen for the "home run," as it were. The 
labor has been long, hard, and exhaustive. Many times I 
have been tempted, cruelly tempted, to give it up. But I 
didn't. Just now, as these lines are being penned. I am 
quite alone. I am writing away, though ever and anon I 
pause for thoughtful, prayerful consideration. Could all 
of my readers see my inner life, know my real thoughts, 
understand my mind just as it really is, I am certain that 
they would then treat me with the kindness and consider- 
ation which are justly mine, yours, everybody's. I stand 
at the abrupt, naked result of many days of incessant labor, 
and a strange, vague, far-away fear takes possession of my 
being. Somehow I am afraid that I and my work may 
not be understood properly, that in my drawing of char- 
acters F have been rather too true to real life, that some- 
where in my book I have not been just to every one, that 
there will in turn be those who will not be just to me in 
their estimate of my work, and that in the end many will 
not regard me at all. But yet I know that these are all 
just the remotest of troubles to be feared, therefore I have 
decided to publish the book, just as it is written, — regard- 
less of everything. When I ponder it all long and thought- 
fully, and with prayer, my heart of hearts tells me that I 
am right, that I have done injustice to no person, and that 

87 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE/' 

man's higher nature approves my way of looking at life. 
In my sketching of characters, scenes, incidents, etc., I have 
followed an honorable course, I have been charitable, I 
have at least striven very hard to be just. And while I 
can understand how many readers will not see it as I see 
it, still I can also say that I was aware of this phase of hu- 
man nature long before I had ever written the first page 
of the book. So, gentle readers, you needn't think you 
can give me a surprise along that line, for I have thought 
it all over very seriously. 

Fi >reword —Please read the Foreword very carefully. 
I make this request of my readers for this especial reason, 
to wit : After writing and studying very hard, and under 
difficulties and amidst discouragements peculiar to my own 
surroundings, the fear has seized me that she, of whom I 
was thinking, and who has been the inspirer of all my 
most heart- feeling, soul-stirring writings, might perhaps 
feel that she has been imposed upon. I wrote the Fore- 
word, dedicated it to her memory, and filed it away in my 
private papers One day, several months afterward. I took 
it out copied it for this work, — and omitted all of it that 
related to. or was of interest merely to, the author. That, 
in short, is the history of the Foreword. Therefore, my 
dear little friend, please be tolerant of me. When you 
have read this book, in the privacy of your own room, 
please be so kind as to forgive all the embarrassment that 
one poor fellow has given you, and think only of the good 
that your little, unselfish, and sincere life has done the 
author. So far a*- I am now concerned, the episodes of 
my former days are a closed chapter, and I prefer to think 
onlv of pleasant things. I of course do not wish to har- 
bor unpleasant memories, — and isn't it a fact that one's 

88 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

most unpleasant memories are those which bring his own 
little misdeeds ever before him? Gentle reader please be- 
lieve that I speak the solemn truth when I say that I know 
I shall be the sufferer for anything- of an unpleasant nature 
that any of my writings may stir up. Yet, no harm has 
been done by this book. The simple truth of the whole 
matter is this: I have just lived and made the material 
for these stories. That I have been in love, I do not deny : 
it is a monument of honor to me as a human being. Ah! 
I am proud of the fact that I have loved, loved truly and 
devotedly. I make this declaration before God and man. 
And should any remark or act of mine ever cause the 
blush of shame to come to any one's face, I shall deplore 
it as long as I live. I have written the foregoing stories, 
essays, and sketches in a sincere spirit. From the bottom 
of my poor he^rt, I have believed that I was following the 
better, higher, truer, nobler path. Not one phase of my 
work have I failed to give serious consideration. And how 
can I help it ; f there do happen to be unjust critics? I for- 
give them all. 

"Dreamy-Eyes." — This story needs no further explana- 
tion. It is a true sketch from real life, drawn with orna- 
ments of my own composing. . 

The Guitarist. — She lives somewhere in Cherokee coun- 
ty, and is no doubt one of my many enthusiastic and ad- 
miring readers. 

"Dreaming." — This is just a sort of reverie, written one 
rainy day last winter. For a great many days I had been 
in the very depths of despair, and the composing of it and 
of the preceding articles was the first act of my own that 
seemed to bring peace to my troubled soul. Somehow, 
when I began to write these stories, a great and glorious 

89 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

calm seemed to settle over me, and I feel that it will, never 
leave. Several times since, I have been in the depths ; but 
never again shall I teel as I felt last winter when I almost 
despaired. Resignation, absolute and complete, is mine 
this calm August day; and I am eagerly pressing forward 
to the goal of my ambition, confident in the belief that I 
shall always be guided and directed by an ever-loving, 
kindly, patient, long-suffering Father. 

At Twenty-three. — After Ella Wheeler Wilcox and Tom 
Watson. In transcribing this article, I omitted the last 
paragraph. And right here permit me to pay a fitting 
tribute to one of whom I have hitherto said very little in 
my writings. I allude to my mother. For twenty-three 
long years, she has lived a life of devotion to me. Several 
of my friends playfully accuse me of being a ladies' man, 
of being very much in love with several pretty girls, and of 
really being love-sick. But I know that after all is said, 
thought and done, I can really and truthfully say that I 
have never been as crazy as I have often seemed to be. The 
real truth is this : I am a ladies' man, a lover to the man- 
ner born; I have been love-sick, jealous, off my head, and 
all that sort of thing, many times in my life; but never at 
any time have I ever entertained any deeper sentiments for 
any one than I have for my own dear, gentle, patient, noble 
mother. Gentle readers, this is the solemn truth. 

In the "Seas of Memory." — This is a short essay, and 
was penned one day while I was awaiting the R. F. D. 
man's arrival 

My Ideals. — There w as some hesitation, on my part, 
about publishing this article. Somehow or other, I was at 
first fearful that it would not make just the proper impres- 
sion. Nevertheless, I did at last permit it to stand as writ- 

90 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE.*' 

ten. Discerning readers can at once see that it is only a 
boyish composition, written by a boy who has seen none 
of the world. One of my recently made patrons, a promi- 
nent citizen of Ycrkville, encourages me to go on in my 
own way. He says. "Now, Love, let me advise you to pub- 
lish your stories. Write for the amusement of the young- 
er people, and success will certainly be yours." Ah! gentle 
reader, the ideal woman, the ideal girl are realities. In my 
quiet, lonely life I've had reason to know this to be true. 
I could do nothing more, therefore I deliberately selected 
the little girl for my own incentive, as it were; and there- 
on will rest my fame as an author. Reading romantic 
stories has filled me to the brim with sentiment, and I real- 
ly hope to be a lover of beauty, tenderness, and sentiment 
as long as I live. Life will be made the easier for me by 
having done so, and I think not one will ever raise any 
objections.. 

My Heart's Desire. — The reader knows at once what 
was in the author's mind when he wrote this article. But 
no matter what it might suggest to the minds of its readers, 
in the years io come I hope that I shall not have occasion 
to regret having penned this sketch. I have written just 
what I felt. 

Mv Aching Void. — This article needs no comment. T 
will, however, say I have not done violence to the truth of 
any emotion, or feeling whatever, by writing it. 

The Fire. — A true story, excepting the author's style of 
telling it, which is rather magnifying in some particulars. 

"Richard." — Another true story. 

"Brown-Eyes." — This is although an imaginary story, 
written after the style of Charles Dickens in some of his 
writings. The character is drawn from real life, but the 

9i 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

story is in no sense of the word true. I make this state- 
ment in justice to myself and to those who know me per- 
sonally and intimately. Read it just for what it is — a story. 
Fragments — What will my readers think on reading 
this chapter? Yes; just what will the}' think? I know not 
— neither do I care. I could not resist the desire to publish 
it. The name tells what it is — the fragments, or remains, 
of a love story. T at one time had no notion of ever pub- 
lishing it; but as time moved on, things changed sufficiently 
to enable me to see my way clear in publishing the last 
part of it. And it does not, I sincerely believe do injustice 
to anybody who has been associated with me. Some of it 
is true — but I won't say how much. You know, we authors 
are a privileged set; that is, we take liberties. We just can- 
not help writing about those things which please us. 1 
destroyed the greater part of the story about Lillian, and 
so it will never be read by the general public. I wrote it 
for my own amusement. Of course, if I had not fancied 
myself very much in love, I could not have written just as 
I have written Nevertheless, I do not feel that I did 
wrong. Surely not one person of reasonable intelligence 
will ever wish to deny me the pleasure of building air cas- 
tles around the pretty girls ? No person living has a more 
profound respect for womanhood than I. No one ever was 
more self-reliant, in a certain way, than I. The truth of 
the whole matter is this : Not one could ever think less 
about these little stories than the author thinks, once they 
have been committed to paper. So please, my dear readers, 
do not think too seriously about me. I want your sympathy 
and encouragement and assistance; but pray don't consider 
me an object of pity. I've got a lot of pride and "grit," 
you know; and since I could do nothing else, I've decided 

92 



UNDER THE LAMP WITH "BEN HOPE." 

to write for a living. I love those who have assisted me, 
with a devotion that will last as long as I live. And when 
I think over all the little times I have had with them, with 
my kind friends, I am filled with gratitude. Ah me! I 
could hardly resist the impulse to give my friends a promi- 
nent place in this work. Loyalty to principle is a noble 
thing. — and of course I desire to be loyal, devoted and true. 
And now I am nearing the end. I have labored all summer, 
and the work has been hard. Therefore, if it should hap- 
pen^that I have written anything of an immodest nature in 
the opinion of my readers, the punishment (if it incur pun- 
ishment) will be mine, and not any one else's. Read "Frag- 
ments" just as you would read any other story. 

The two stories which close this volume are purely 
imaginary A.nd now that every one knows, or at least 
should by this time know, that this book has been written 
for entertainment and revenue, it would seem that nothing 
further remains to be said in explanation thereof. I wish 
to express my thanks to every one of my readers for having 
read this book. I thank you all ; from the depths of my 
heart. I thank you all. When the closing lines of this book 
are being penned, this bright September day, somehow a 
feeling of intense loneliness comes over me. Tom Watson 
says that it is always so with one when he completes a work 
over which he has labored for a long time. But farewell ! 
kind friends ; I am sorry to' leave you, but I really must 
go now I've already tarried too long with you. I fear; 
yet I just could not depart without telling you why and 
how I came to write these stories. Next year, I shall write 
the second volume of "Under the Lamp." I can do nothing 
else, therefore I have determined to earn a competence by 
writing books. The photo for this volume was made by 
Mr. W. L. Latham. 

THE END. 



DEC 16 19U 

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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